4 


V 


/N 


SOUTHFRN    BRANCH 

UNIVERSITY  of  CALIFORNIA 
LIBRARY 

LOS   ANGBtSS!  CALIF. 


THE  SYMPHONY  SINCE    BEETHOVEN 


THE  SYMPHONY 

SINCE    BEETHOVEN 

BY 

FELIX   WEINGARTNER 

(CONDUCTOR    OF    THE    ROYAL     SYMPHONY    CONCERTS, 

BERLIN,  AND   OF  THE    KAIM   ORCHESTRA, 

MUNICH) 

Translated,  from  the  second   German  edition 
{with  the  author' s  permission) 

BY 

MAUDE    BARROWS   DUTTON 


BOSTON 

OLIVER    DITSON    COMPANY 

New  York  Chicago 

C.  H.  Ditson  &  Co.  Ly°n  &  Healy 

Copyright,  MCMIV,  by  Oliver   Ditson  Company 

\0  6  ^5- 


[the  symphony  since  beethoven] 


E. 


TRANSLATION 

OF   THE 

AUTOGRAPH  LETTER 


London,  April  19,  1904. 
Miss  Maude  Barrows  Dutton. 

Your  translation  of  "  The  Symphony   Since  Bee- 
thoven "  has  been  very  highly  praised  by  one  of  my 
friends  who  is  familiar   with    English,    and    I    am 
glad  to  give  you  my  permission  to  publish  it. 
Yours  most  respectfully, 

FELIX    WEINGARTNER. 


[6] 


(Reproduction  of  Weingartner's  Autograph  Letter.) 


rv 


* 


r-1 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION 


The  necessity  of  getting  out  a  second  edition 
of  this  book  two  years  after  the  publication  of  the 
first  is  a  gratifying  proof  to  me  that  the  thoughts 
expressed  therein  did  not  fall  upon  unfruitful  soil, 
although  nothing  was  done  for  their  dissemination. 
The  present  edition  differs  from  the  first,  primarily 
in  being  more  carefully  finished  in  style,  and 
furthermore  in  a  greater  precision,  to  obtain 
which  some  wordy  passages  have  been  struck  out 
and  some  supplementary  ones  have  been  added. 
No  reader  of  this  edition  will  suffer  under  the 
false  impression  that  I  consider  the  further  devel- 
opment of  the  symphony  impossible  and  speak  a 
good  word  for  programme  music  only.  It  is  in- 
comprehensible to  me  how  any  one  could  have 
read  this  idea  into  the  first  edition. 

There  have  been  complaints,  also,  that  I  have 
overlooked  composers.  Especially  in  Paris,  where 
the  little  book  has  become  known  through  the 
translation  made  by  Madame  Chevillard,  has  this 
criticism  been  raised  against  me.  Although  more 
names  are  spoken  of  here  than  before,  still  there 
are  of  course  many  deserving  artists  who  are  not 
mentioned.  My  book  is  not  a  catalogue,  and  no 
one  should  expect  to  find  in  it  just  what  he  would 
in  the  latter. 

Finally,  the  question  is  often  put  to  me  with  no 


Preface  to  the  Second  Edition 

little  wit,  why  I,  after  writing  this  book,  should 
have  composed  two  symphonies,  and  what  was 
my  aim  in  doing  this.  I  will  take  the  trouble  here 
to  answer  this  query  with  corresponding  wit.  _  Aim 
had  I  none.  Both  symphonies  were  written  simply 
because  they  came  to  me. 

Felix  Weingartner. 
Munich,  December,  1900. 


M 


THE 

SYMPHONY    SINCE    BEETHOVEN 


If  in  wandering  through  some  Alpine  valley, 
while  we  were  standing  awestruck  before  a  colossal 
mountain,  whose  snow-crowned  peak  rose  shim- 
mering in  the  distance,  and  we  were  perhaps  deem- 
ing that  man  happy  whose  courage  and  strength 
were  great  enough  to  carry  him  over  this  peak  to 
enjoy  the  view  beyond,  when  suddenly  our  medi- 
tations were  interrupted  by  a  voice  at  our  side 
saying  in  all  seriousness,  "I  am  going  to  climb 
over  that  mountain  into  the  blue  clouds  beyond," 
we  would  have  little  doubt  but  that  we  were  con- 
fronted either  by  a  foolhardy  dreamer  or  a  mad- 
man. We  would  scarcely  ridicule  the  man,  but 
rather  look  upon  his  simple  faith  with  eyes  of  pity. 

Such  a  feeling  of  pity  can  also  seize  upon  us, 
when  we  come  into  the  full  consciousness  of  Bee- 
thoven's greatness,  when  our  whole  being  becomes 
filled  with  the  infinitely  deep  significance  of  his 
compositions,  and  then  meet  so  many  young  com- 
posers who  are  striving  under  the  title  of  sym- 
phony to  win  for  themselves  money  or  reputation. 

Compared  with  the  inexhaustible  wealth  of  emo- 
tion and  thought  that  Beethoven  gave  us  through 
his  music,  compared  with  his  expression  of  that 
world  of  feelings  which  embraces  the  most  pow- 

Ci*1 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

erful  passions  and  the  tenderest  feelings  of  love, 
the  deepest  humor  and  metaphysical  transporta- 
tions, it  must  at  first  seem  like  a  foolhardy  if  not 
an  insane  undertaking,  —  like  the  dream  of  the 
man  who  would  climb  the  impassable  mountain, 

—  where  works  to-day  are  written  in  the  same 
form  as  Beethoven's  symphonies.  Richard  Wag- 
ner, not  only  the  greatest  musician  but  also  the 
greatest  musical  critic  of  the  last  half-century, 
pours  out  his  bitterest  satire  on  the  symphony- 
writers  since  Beethoven.  He  is  astonished  that 
composers  saw  in  Beethoven's  creations  only  the 
finished  form  and  gaily  went  on  writing  more 
symphonies  without  observing  that  the  "last" 
symphony,  Beethoven's  Ninth,  had  been  given  to 
the  world;  without  observing  that  in  this  sym- 
phony lay  the  extreme  emanation  of  music  as  a 
separate  art,  as  a  direct  transition  to  collective  art, 

—  by  which  he  means  works  which  are  freed  from 
all  vagueness  by  their  artistic  finish,  —  and  that 
with  its  birth  the  right  of  existence  of  all  other 
symphonies  had  in  itself  to  fail.  Wagner  con- 
sidered, at  the  same  time,  the  "Ninth  Symphony" 
as  a  precursor  of  his  own  lifework,  and  character- 
ized Beethoven's  great  tone -poem  as  working  a 
reform  in  his  mind.  Although  I  have  referred 
to  Wagner's  broader  treatment  of  this  subject  in 
"Opera  and  Drama,"  I  wish  to  state  clearly,  here 
at  the  beginning  of  this  treatise,  that  on  this  point 
I  am  not  agreed  with  Wagner.  A  nature  like  his, 
that  with  such  incredible  energy  sought  to  reach 
its  highest  goal,  and  did  reach  it,  as  he  was  able  to 
do,  must  finallv  look  at  all  else  in  the  light  of  this 

[»] 


Beethoven 

goal,  and  lose  to  a  certain  extent  that  objectivity 
which  distinguishes  other  great  men,  who  are  not 
in  this  sense  revolutionary,  as  for  instance  Goethe. 
The  question  next  arises:  What  indeed  can  be 
said  of  a  form  which  stands  there  complete  in 
itself,  which  in  relation  to  its  own  parts,  even  in 
case  of  a  change  of  key,  seems  almost  immovably 
placed  under  rule;  of  a  form  which  after  a  mas- 
ter had  filled  it  with  such  wonderful  content  that 
it  proved  too  small,  so  that  he  in  the  end,  after  he 
had  expressed  the  vastness  of  his  soul  in  it,  broke 
its  fetters  forever,  as  Beethoven  did  in  the  last 
movement  of  his  "Ninth  Symphony,"  as  well  as  in 
his  last  sonatas  and  quartets  ?  We  may  question 
further  if  it  is  not  the  love  of  experimentation,  and 
no  longer  the  art  impulse,  which  leads  a  composer 
to  gather  up  the  debris  of  form  which  Beethoven's 
genius  snapped  asunder  and  seek  to  bring  them 
together  again  into  a  perfect  whole.  In  fact,  we 
may  justly  ask  if  such  composers  are  capable  of 
conceiving  Beethoven's  immortal  greatness.  In 
opposition  to  this,  it  must  be  emphatically  asserted 
that  Beethoven,  after  he  had  once  deserted  the 
usual  form,  did  not  always  continue  to  do  so.  He 
in  no  wise  wished  his  act  to  be  interpreted  as  the 
laying  down  of  a  deliberate  principle.  The  sonata, 
Opus  ioi,  which  is  like  a  free  fantasia,  is  followed 
by  the  monumental  Opus  106,  which  in  its  four 
gigantic  movements  is  perfectly  rounded  off  as  to 
form;  the  sonatas  in  E-major  and  A-flat  major, 
even  freer  in  their  form,  are  followed  by  the  last 
one  in  C-minor,  which,  if  one  overlooks  the  omis- 
sion of  the  customary  quick-moving  finale,  is  so 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

complete  in  form  that  Biilow  could  justly  point  it 
out  as  a  model  of  its  kind.     The  two  quartets  in 
B-flat  major  and  C-sharp  minor  stand  between 
the  two  in  E-flat  major  and  A-minor,  which   in 
form  do  not  deviate  in  the  least  from  earlier  quar- 
tets.    At  any  rate,  it  is  clear  that  Beethoven  left1 
the  accustomed  form  only  when  the  arrangement 
of  the  entire  work  required  it,— as,  for  example. 
guided  by  his  inspiration,  he  introduced  the  choral 
part,  with  Schiller's  words,  into  his  "Ninth  Sym- 
phony,"— and  that  he  in  no  wise  treated  the  form 
as  obsolete,  although  at  times  he  stepped  beyond 
its  bounds.     Face  to  face  with  these  examples  we 
can  justly  conjecture,  although  we  can  never  know, 
whether  Beethoven   if  he  had   lived   would   haw- 
written  another  symphony  in  the  old  form.     Wag- 
ner by  his  hypothesis  of  the  last  symphony  seems 
to  consider  it  improbable.     We  tan  more  easily 
answer  the  question,  whether  in  the  present  day 
when  we  see  a  composer  heap  up  an  immense  pile 
of  abnormal  instrumental  and  perhaps  vocal  music 
in  order  to  produce  tone-pictures  surpassing  the 
old  form,  if  it  here  also  was  really  the  deliberate 
intention  and  not  perchance  only  the  mass  of  aver- 
age work  which  wore  out  the  form,  and  if  that  mass 
of  average  work  did  not  correspond  to  the  crea- 
tive power  which  produced  the  compositions.     It 
so,  no  Phoenix  will  fly  forth  from  the  ashes  of  the 
cooling  debris  of  form,  but,  on  the   contrary,   a 
thick,  strange  liquor  will  ooze  forth  from  the  broken 
vessel  and  fall  heavily  to  the  ground.     On  the 
other  hand,  in  case  of  a  truly  significant  work,  a 
trulv  inspired  work  which  has  withstood  victori- 

['4] 


Beethoven 

ously  the  duly  assigned  struggle  with  contempo- 
rary shortsightedness,  one  will  recognize  in  its 
form  and  instrumentation,  if  they  do  not  deviate 
too  greatly  from  the  customary,  only  the  necessary 
means  for  the  embodiment  of  the  composer's  in- 
spiration. We  will  no  longer  measure  such  a 
work  by  the  old  laws,  but  will  seek  to  deduce  new 
laws  from  it. 

1  No  musical  form  has  developed  from  its  origin 
to  its  incontestable  zenith  within  such  a  remark- 
ably short  time  as  the  symphony.  The  song,  for 
example,  although  it  found  its  first  great  master 
early  in  this  century,  is  still  discovering  through 
the  blending  of  words  and  music,  which  have 
each  in  their  own  way  adapted  themselves  to  the 
melodious  character  of  the  song,  new  outlets  for 
itself,  so  that  many  a  song  written  since  Schubert's 
death  may  fear  nothing  from  a  comparison  with 
those  of  this  immortal  singer.  For  the  musical 
drama,  through  Richard  Wagner's  reformatory 
deed,  innumerable  ways  now  stand  open  which 
depend  only  upon  the  choice  and  the  poetical  elab- 
oration of  the  subject.  And  now  we  must  remem- 
ber that  Haydn  wrote  his  first  symphony  about 
the  year  1760,  and  that  in  1823,  only  sixty-three 
years  later,  those  harmless,  playfully  joyous  cre- 
ations had  gloriously  developed  into  the  grandest 
of  tragedies,  and  Beethoven's  "  Ninth  Symphony  " 
had  come  into  being.  .More  than  three-quarters 
of  a  century  have  passed  between  the  appearance 
of  that  wonderful  creation  and  to-day,  and  still 
in  the  realm  of  symphonies  it  wears,  undisputed, 
the  crown.    But  as  in  all  spheres  of  life  we  ob- 

['S] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

serve  that  a  temporary  retrogression,  often  a  com- 
plete decline,  follows  the  highest  development,  so 
I  believe  that  nature  here,  after  she  had  produced 
Haydn,  Mozart,  and  Beethoven,  men  of  immortal 
greatness,   needed  a  period  of  comparative  rest 
after  the  overpowering  strain.     Productive  power 
has  turned  towards  the  opera,  the  musical  drama, 
and   borne   its  ripest  fruit  thus   far   in   Richard 
Wagner.      But  who  can  therefore  conclude  that 
"music  is  going  over  into  the  collective  arts,"  and 
consequently  that  the  symphony,  as  well  as  music 
in  general,  is  losing  its  right  of  existence  as  a  sepa- 
rate art  ?    All  further  development  depends  solely 
on  the  birth  of  the  ruling  genius,  which  can  neither 
be  foreseen  nor  predicted,  and  when  it  does  conic 
will  cast  all  calculations  to  the  winds.     And  if  we 
cannot  know  with  what  contents  a  future  com- 
poser will  fill  the  symphonic  form,  so  is  it  equally 
wrong  to  lay  the  blame  of  the  degeneration  of 
symphonic    productions    since    Beethoven  to  the 
forms  being  obsolete.     Wagner  himself  seems  to 
take  back,  partially  at  least,  what  he  pronounced 
so  harshly  in  "Opera  and  Drama,"  in  that  in  his 
treatise  "Upon  the  Application  of   Music   to   the 
Drama  "  (Volume  X.  of  his  collected  works)  he  ac- 
knowledges, under  certain  conditions,  the  possi- 
bility of  a  symphony  being  written  about  which 
"something  too  might  be  said." 

In  order  to  reach  a  comprehensive  view  of  this 
heretofore  only  suggested  possibility,  we  will  wish 
to  run  through,  here  briefly,  there  more  exten- 
sively, the  chief  works  which  have  been  produced 
in  the  line  of  symphonies. 

[16] 


Haydn 

Haydn  becomes  acquainted  with  the  sonatas  of 
Philip  Emanuel  Bach,  —  freer,  more  worldly  forms 
of  the  suites  of  his  great  father,  —  and  creates 
similar  compositions  for  the  private  orchestras  of 
nobles  in  whose  service  he  is  employed  as  musical 
director.  Masterpieces,  of  which  a  large  number 
will  never  grow  old,  but  will  so  charm  us  by  their 
youthful  freshness  that  we  always  believe  we  are 
hearing  them  for  the  first  time,  sprang  from  his 
sunny,  childlike  nature.  Mozart's  nature  was  of 
greater  depth  than  Haydn's.  Treated  in  the 
struggle  for  existence  much  more  roughly,  —  much 
too  roughly,  —  so  that  his  delicate  body  was  soon 
worn  out,  he  shows  many  a  time  in  his  composi- 
tions the  seriousness  that  hung  over  his  life.  The 
gentle  melancholy  of  the  G-minor  symphony,  the 
harsh  severity  of  the  C-major,  the  partly  majestic, 
partly  heartfelt  earnestness  in  the  first  two  move- 
ments of  the  E-flat  major,  are  characteristic  fea- 
tures of  Mozart's  work,  but  quite  foreign  to 
Haydn's  instrumental  compositions.  But  his  in- 
dividuality reveals  itself  particularly  in  the  opera. 
The  strains  which  he  intones  in  the  last  scene  of 
"Don  Giovanni,"  and  in  the  "Magic  Flute,"  the 
prophecy  of  power  in  his  treatment  of  the  orches- 
tra in  "Figaro,"  are  not  found  in  his  symphonies. 
Beethoven,  also,  in  his  first  two  symphonies  de- 
pends on  his  predecessors.  Had  he  died  after  the 
completion  of  his  symphony  in  D-major,  no  one 
would  have  had  a  suspicion  of  his  actual  genius. 
Then  came  a  miracle.  A  great  personality  in  the 
political  world,  the  First  Consul  of  the  French 
Republic,  inspired  the  young  musician.     He  felt 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

called  to  celebrate  his  deeds  in  a  great  tone-poem, 
and  _  as  Athene  once  sprang  from  the  head  of 
Zeus  — the  ^'Eroica  Symphony"   burst  from  the 
soul  of  Beethoven.     Xo  other  artist  ever  took  such 
a  gigantic  stride  as  Beethoven  did  between  his 
second  and  third  symphony.     He  felt  in  the  depth 
of  his  great  being  that  the  ideal  life,  freed  from 
the  dross  of  humanity,  I  might  say  the  true  life  of 
a  hero,  the  fruits  of  his  labors,  and  the  full  appre- 
ciation of  his  worth,  comes  only  after  his  death. 
So  Beethoven  shows  us,  only  in  the  first  move- 
ment, the  hero  himself,  in  his  wrestlings  and  strug- 
gles, and  in  the  full  glory  of  victory.     As  early  as 
the  second  movement,  sounds  forth  the  majestic 
lament  for  his  death.     In  the  third,  that  remark- 
ably short  scherzo,  is  given  a  picture  of  the  human 
race,  busy  one  day  as  another  with  itself,  hurrying 
by  all  that  is  sublime  with  jesting  or  indifference, 
or  at  most  commemorating  the  hero's  deeds  with 
a  resounding  fanfare.     In  the  last  movement  the 
peoples  come  together  from  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
bringing  building-stones  for  a  worthy  monument 
to  the  now  fully  recognized  hero,  —  a  monument 
which  cannot  be  more  beautiful  than  is  the  love 
paid  to  his  memory.     This  movement  surpasses 
the  first    two   in  its  boldness  of  conception  and 
in  its 'polyphonic  working-out,  and  makes  the  so 
greatly  admired  fugue-finale  in  Mozart's  "Jupiter 
Symphony  "  seem  like  a  child's  toy.     When  at  last 
the  veil  falls  from  the  monument,  when  the  strains 
of  the  consecration  music  arise,  and  all  eyes  filled 
with  tears  look  up  at  the  image  of  the  deified  hero, 
then  ring  upon  our  ears  the  sounds  that  tell  us 

[18] 


Schubert 

that  with  this  symphony,  music  has  learned  to 
speak  a  language  for  which  it  hitherto  seemed  to 
possess  no  organ. 

How  Beethoven  strode  further  from  one  won- 
derful work  to  another  and  finally  crowned  all  his 
efforts  with  the  "Ninth  Symphony, "  —  who  does 
not  linger  gladly  there!  But  I  will  not  speak  to 
you  of  Beethoven  himself,  but  of  those  who  came 
after  him.  Perhaps  I  have  already  diverged  too 
far  from  my  real  theme;  but,  as  in  wandering 
through  the  mountains,  —  to  hold  to  the  simile  in 
the  beginning  of  this  treatise,  —  when  we  know 
that  the  majestic  snow  peak,  upon  which  we  have 
gazed  spellbound,  will  vanish  at  the  next  turn  in 
the  path,  it  is  a  temptation  to  linger  there  and  en- 
joy its  splendor  to  the  very  last,  so  here  I  felt  that 
I  must  needs  say  a  few  words  about  one  of  Bee- 
thoven's works  before  he  fades  from  our  horizon 
to  be  visible  later  only  in  the  far  distance. 

Turning  now  completely  away  from  our  gigan- 
tic peak  to  the  surrounding  neighborhood,  we  find 
many  a  pleasant  range  of  hills,  and  many  a  ro- 
mantic cliff,  that  can  fascinate  and  charm  us  to  no 
small  degree.  Such  is  the  case  also  with  the  sym- 
phonies written  since  Beethoven,  as  far  as  it  is  a 
question  of  the  customary  symphonic  form.  We 
will  find  in  them  beauty  and  worth,  but  to  appre- 
ciate them  we  must  turn  completely  away  from 

Beethoven. 

Close  to  Beethoven,  rather  his  contemporary 
than  his -successor,  there  appears  a  wonderful 
musician,    Franz    Schubert.     Probably   no   other 

pa 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

musician  was  ever  gifted  with  such  a  wealth  of 
pure  melodic  imagination,  with  such  an  abundance 
of  musical  invention,  combined  with  the  dec; 
and  tenderest  since:  -  >ul.     If  we  find  when- 

ever we  are  allowed  to  look  into  the  workshops  of 
Beethoven's  mind,  a  powerful  wrestling,  a  working, 
conscious  of  its  goal,  for  the  final  musical  expres- 
sion of  his  genius,  so  we  see  Schubert's  fancies 
springing  and  bubbling  forth  from  an  inexhaust- 
ible fountain.  The  great  number  of  his  works  in 
comparison  with  the  years  of  his  life  astounds  us. 
He  died  at  thirty-one.  but  he  has  written  much 
more  than  the  other  masters.  His  entire  being 
was  saturated  with  music.  He  went  on  and  on 
composing,  writing  down  his  fancies  without  sift- 
ing or  polishing.  Thus  he  was  of  a  lovable, 
rene  disposition,  a  thoroughly  genial  Viennese  who 

"y  surmounted  embarrassments.     The  mis 
able  condition  of  his  poverty-stricken  life  could  not 
silence  the  godlike  voice  in  his  soul. ' 

an  aneede:  -  was  told  me 

r.d  of 
day  Lachner  had  asked  - 
bert  to  make  an  e>.  to  the  con  S     ubert 

s  unable,  as  he  had  :  t  in  his 

pocket.     As  Lachnei  -nuch  better  off,  the  embarras- 

adl  the  gre„-  r.    So  S  ~    gave  Lachner  a  book 

manuscript,  asking  hi  iblisher  ar  r  the 

fee  on  it.    He  said  he  did  not  d.  id  been  refused 

so  often.     The  pu':  -  ed  Diabelli»   proved  very 

much  averse  t  are  by  that  Schubert,"  saying 

there  was  no  call  for  his  s  er,  he  consented 

the  magnificent  sum  — .anuscript.    The  two 

friends  went  on  their  excursion,  hap:  :  and  finding  a  spinet 

in  a  country  inn,  -  -ubert  at  once  played  several  songs  to  Lachner, 
which  had  occurred  to  him  on  the  way.  Unfortunately,  Lachner  could 
not  remember  exactly  which  they  were,  but  he  assured  me  there  was  one 
of  them  which  is  now  among  the  most  celebrated  of  Schubert's  songs. 


Schubert 

This  fabulous  productivity  of  Schubert's  had  of 
course  this  disadvantage,  that  often  insignificant 
and  superficial  music,  which  would  not  be  worthy 
of  preservation,  came  from  his  pen.  Indeed,  one 
must  count  half  his  compositions  as  such,  but  those 
of  his  works  that  far  exceed  mediocrity  place  him 
for  all  time  in  the  ranks  of  the  great  masters. 
I  read  recently  in  a  work  on  one  of  the  newer  com- 
posers, that  this  musician  could  not  really  be  called 
a  genius  because  he  had  not  enriched  music  with 
any  new  forms.  How  little  of  a  genius  Schubert 
must  then  have  been  who,  in  truth,  presented  us 
with  no  new  forms,  but  instead  filled  the  old  ones 
with  extremely  rich  and  individual  contents ! 

Schubert  was  the  lyric  singer,  «"■'  4«^.  What 
he  wrote,  the  most  joyous  as  well  as  the  most 
tragic,  seems  to  have  been  imbued  always  with 
that  gentle,  melodious  element  that  causes  his 
figure  to  appear,  as  it  were,  through  tears  of  gentle 
emotion.  A  happy  warmth  floods  his  music. 
Think  of  the  great 'symphony  in  C-major.  Schu- 
bert himself  probably  never  heard  it,  and  we  must 
realize  with  horror  that  it  would  have  remained 
unknown  if  Robert  Schumann  had  not  discovered 
it  in  Vienna,  not  long  after  Schubert's  death. 
How  grand  it  stands  before  us  in  its  four  glorious 
movements !  — the  first  swelling  with  life  and 
strength,  the  second  a  gipsy  romance  with  the 
wonderful  secret  horn  motive  (the  heavenly  guest, 
as  Schumann  so  beautifully  expressed  it),  the 
splendid  scherzo,  and  the  finale  filled  with  gigantic 
humor.  No  worked-up  harmonic  effects,  no  poly- 
phonic combinations,  awaken  our  interest,  and  yet 

[«] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

this  work,  lasting  in  performance  over  an  hour 
without  break,  —  which  is  quite  unusual  for  a 
symphony,  —  is  able  to  fascinate  us  and  carry  us 
along  with  it.  It  is  quite  incomprehensible  to  me 
how,  in  the  presence  of  such  a  direct  expression  of 
truly  divine  power,  there  are  always  those  people 
who  find  this  symphony  too  long  and  desire  to 
shorten  it.  I  do  not  belong  to  this  class,  and  con- 
fess that  whenever  I  hear  this  work  well  conducted, 
or  conduct  it  myself,  I  always  experience  the  i 
joyous  sensations  and  become  fairly  intoxicated 
with  the  music.  Free  flying  about  through  a 
clear  and  shining  ether  might  perhaps  arouse 
similar  feelings.  Nature  has  denied  us  this  de- 
light, but  great  works  of  art  can  give  it. 

What  shall  I  say  concerning  the  two  movements 
which  have  been  preserved  for  us  in  the  B-minor 
symphony?  Generally  speaking,  it  is  a  misfortune 
if  an  author  is  not  able  to  complete  his  work,  but  1 
might  almost  call  it  fortunate  that  this  symphony 
has  remained  unfinished.  The  first  movement  is 
of  a  tragic  greatness  that,  with  the  exception  of 
Beethoven,  no  symphony-writer  and  Schubert 
himself  only  in  some  of  his  songs  has  attained. 
I  consider  the  second  theme,  given  out  by  the 
violoncellos,  as  one  of  the  most  majestic  inspira- 
tions that  was  ever  permitted  a  musician  to  expr< 
That  which  thrilled  us  in  the  first  movement  as  a 
mental  strife  sounds  forth  in  the  second  mild  and 
cleared  up,  as  if  the  composer  had  already  soared 
to  the  eternal  realms.  According  to  my  opinion, 
this  finale  is  so  satisfying  that  I  never  have  any 
desire  to  hear  a  continuation  of  the  work  after  the 

[»] 


Mendelssohn 

first  two  movements.  We  might  believe  that  Schu- 
bert, like  Beethoven  in  his  piano  sonatas,  Opus 
109  and  in,  wished  to  close  with  the  slower  move- 
ment, if  we  were  not  led  to  infer  that  a  continua- 
tion was  planned,  since  the  second  movement  is 
written  in  a  different  key  from  the  beginning.  In 
truth,  there  exists  an  instrumental  introduction  and 
a  sketch  of  a  scherzo  belonging  to  the  B-minor 
symphony  which,  if  one  may  judge  from  what  ex- 
ists of  it,  would  not  have  reached  the  significance 
of  the  first  movements.  In  greatness  and  strength 
of  feeling  combined  with  the  tender  lyrical  ele- 
ment that  runs  like  a  scarlet  thread  through  his 
works,  Schubert  appears  like  a  noble  and,  as  it 
were,  womanly  complement  to  Beethoven.  His 
two  symphonies  in  which  his  significant  personal- 
ity fully  expressed  itself,  as  well  as  the  string  quar- 
tets in  D-minor  and  G-major,  and  the  C-major 
quintet,  stand  in  the  above  sense  worthily  beside 
Beethoven's  creations. 

The  second  great  contemporary  of  Beethoven, 
the  composer  of  "Der  Freischütz,"  has  produced 
remarkable  works  in  the  field  of  the  piano  sonata, 
but  not  in  that  of  the  symphony.  Thus  we  turn 
from  Schubert  to  the  real  symphony-writers  since 
Beethoven,  and  first  of  all  to  the  clever  and  ele- 
gant Felix  Mendelssohn.  It  may  be  said  of  him 
that  he  gives  the  lie  to  the  German  proverb,  "No 
master  falls  from  heaven."  He  who  at  the  age  of 
seventeen,  when  most  of  us  are  merely  stepping 
out  of  childhood,  composed  the  "  Overture  to  the 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  is  indeed  a  master 
fallen  from  heaven.     When  we  think  of  the  elves 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

which  Weber  showed  us  in  "Oberon,"  we  must 
agree  with  Wagner,  who,  in  reference  to  the  '^lid- 
summer  Night's  Dream  Overture,"  said  that  those 
were  not  elves  but  midgets.     But  the  formal  per- 
fection and  conscious  certainty  of  invention  and 
workmanship  which  the  composer  showed  in  this 
overture,  as  well  as  in  the  string-octet  written  even 
earlier, — which  is  a  perfect  masterpiece    in  t he- 
melodious  treatment  of  string  instruments,  —  elicit 
our  astonished  admiration,  and  have  been  attained 
at  such  an  early  age  only  by  Mozart.     Mendels- 
sohn, after  he  had  written  this  piece,  had  noth- 
ing more  to  learn  about  form.'   What  he  would 
have  had  to  possess  to  create  works  equal  to  t: 
of  his  predecessors,  he  could   not  acquire,     ror 
Mendelssohn's  peculiar  genius  demanded  that  it 
should  have  been  born  in  him,  and  it  was  not.     An 
aristocratic  and  yet  lovable  nature,  full  of  poetry 
and  of  intellectuality,  speaks  to  us  from  his  music 
and  letters.  '  Deep  passion  and  subjectivity  he  did 
not  possess.    Not  until  four  years  before  his  death, 
that  is  seventeen  years  after  he  composed  the  over- 
ture, did   he  write  the  rest  of    the  music  to  the 
"Midsummer  Night's  Dream."      Almost    all   of 
Mendelssohn's  works  were  composed  between  these 
two  dates,  and  yet  it  seems  to  have  been  written 
without  a  break,  so  little  difference  is  to  be  distin- 
guished in  the  compositions.    In  contrast,  com] »are 
the  works  of  the  other  great  masters  between  the 
writing  of  which  a  great  length  of  time  elapsed. 
Compare  "The  Flying  Dutchman1 '  with  "Tris- 
tan;" Beethoven's  first  symphony  with  his  seventh; 
Mozart's  "Idomeneo"  with  "The  Magic  Flute." 


Mendelssohn 

What    a   wonderful   difference !    How   little   did 
Wagner  succeed  in  ingrafting  into  his  Parisian 
version  of  "Tannhäuser"  the  language  of  "Tris- 
tan" and  the  "Nibelungen,"  and  how  creditable 
for  him  that  he  did  succeed  so  little!     Mendels- 
sohn did  not,  like  other  artists,  go  through  a  pe- 
riod of  development,  a  period  of  inner  growth. 
From  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  his  life  and 
works  he  was  "a  master  fallen  from  heaven/' 
whose  easy  mastery  of  all  the  technique  of  music 
assures  for  him  still  to-day  the  astonishment  of  all , 
those  who  avoid  works  of  great  passion.     Whether 
he  wrote  pianoforte  music,  songs,  symphonies,  ora- 
torios, or  fragments  of  operas,  there  is  always  the 
same  finished  form,  the  same  care  and  thought 
for  the  harmonious  treatment  of  the  orchestra,  the 
same  elegance,  the  same  lack  of  passionate  feeling. 
,/Two  of  his  symphonies,  the  one  in  A-major  and 
the  one  in  A-minor,  have  come  down  to  the  present 
day.     Both  owe  their  origin  to  rural  scenes,  to 
which  Mendelssohn  was  particularly  impression- 
able.    Thus  they  have  this  advantage  over  the 
dry  "  Reformation  Symphony  "  and  the  "Hymn  of 
Praise,"  that  they  sprang  from  some  lively  impulse, 
and  therefore  their  effect  is  more  animated  than 
the  other  two  works,  which  to-day  exist  in  name 
only.  '-In  them,  as  in  Schubert's  symphonies,  the 
author's  individuality  is  perfectly  expressed.     The 
real  difference  between  the  works  of  these  two 
masters  is  in  their  individuality.     Raphael  paints 
Saint  Cecilia;  Jan  van  Huysum,  a  little  bunch  of 
flowers.     Mastery  of  an  art  must  be  accorded  the 
one  as  much  as  the  other.     By  mastery  I  under- 

[■5] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

stand  especially  the  ability  to  express  perfectly 
and  continuously  one's  own  individuality  in  some- 
particular  art,  to  which  power  belongs,  as  a  very 
vital  addition,  pure  technical  skill,  but  this  can 
and  will  be  attained  if  the  first-mentioned  ability 
is  there.  Lying  at  the  bottom  of  mastery,  and  ex- 
pressing itself  effectively  in  every  important  work 
of  art,  is  a  truthfulness  which  does  not  attempt  to 
give  more  than  it  can.  This  sincerity  Mendels- 
sohn possessed  in  a  high  degree;  therefore,  even 
if  we  do  not  look  upon  him  as  one  of  the  great 
men,  we  must  still  consider  him  as  a  very  gifted 
and  skilful  musician.  Hence  his  compositions,  al- 
though they  lack  strong  passion,  possess  a  sym- 
pathetic perfection  which  quite  obliterates  in  the 
consideration  of  his  artistic  personality  the  ques 
tion  of  how  it  was  done,  and  leaves  only  to  be  con- 
sidered what  it  really  is.  His  immediate  follow- 
ers cannot  claim  a  similar  mastery  of  form. 

With  Mendelssohn  began  a  new  epoch  in  music, 
generally  known  as  the  new-classical.  Its  repre- 
sentatives remain  true  to  the  traditions  in  form  of 
the  old  masters,  but  bring  into  music  a  sentimental, 
mystical  vagueness  that,  contrary  to  the  naive,  ob- 
jective method  of  their  predecessors,  calls  for  a 
subjective  explanation.  Knightly  legends  and  the 
fairy  tales  of  the  Middle  Ages  spring  again  into 
life;  the  world  of  elves  and  spirits  draws  over  the 
classical  ideal  of  beauty  a  sort  of  ghostlike  mist. 
The  period  of  "Hineingeheimnissen"  (hiding 
crets  in  a  work)  sets  in.  "  Analogous  with  an  al- 
most contemporaneous  period  in  German  poetry, 
this  new-classical  epoch  has  been  called  the  ro- 


Schumann 

mantic  epoch.  Mendelssohn  has  always  been  the 
perfect  example  in  his  little  sphere.  He  has  al- 
ways been  the  objective  artist.  Before  all  other 
musicians,  in  relation  to  the  old  masters,  he  de- 
serves the  predicate  "new-classical." 

The  first  and  the  most  peculiarly  subjective  of 
the  romanticists,  if  we  turn  now  from  the  objective, 
classical  romanticist  Weber,  is  Robert  Schumann. 
His  individuality  was  diametrically  opposed  to 
Mendelssohn.  Highly  gifted  as  Mendelssohn  was 
in  mastery  of  form,  was  Schumann  in  inspiration. 
The  former  was  a  perfect  artist,  even  in  his  early 
years;  the  latter  pressed  impetuously  forward, 
ceaselessly  struggling  for  something  new  and  more 
perfect  than  his  last  endeavor,  until  gloomy  fate 
fettered  the  power  of  his  spirit.  In  the  first  period 
of  his  works  we  meet  Schumann  only  as  a  piano- 
forte composer.  Poetical  pictures  give  rise  to  his 
compositions :  he  intwines  the  name  of  his  youth- 
ful love  in  a  theme  and  writes  variations  on  it;  the 
motley  scenes  of  the  carnival  give  him  the  inspira- 
tion for  one  of  the  most  spirited  pianoforte  pieces 
that  we  possess;  Hoffmann's  imaginative  tales 
cause  him  to  write  "  Kreisleriane "  and  the  signifi- 
cant sonata  in  F-sharp  minor;  he  represents  "the 
two  souls  that  dwell  within  his  breast"  by  two  per- 
sonalities, "  Florestan  "  and  "Eusebius,"  and  as- 
cribes his  works  now  to  the  one,  now  to  the  other. 
Violently  abused  by  the  critics  and  musicians  who 
belonged  to  a  guild,  Jie  formed,  with  friends  shar- 
ing his  opinions,  the  "Davidsbündler  league," 
and  dances  roughly  about  on  the  toes  of  the  Phil- 
istines.    I  may  as  well  sav  at  once  that  Schumann 

[=7] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

achieved  his  greatest  significance  as  a  pianoforte 
composer,  as  the  poet  of  the  pianoforte,  one  might 
almost  say.  'Here  he  possessed  the  sincerity  of 
the  great  masters;  here  he  is  just  what  he  is,  with 
no  pretence  of  being  more.  New,  daring  concep- 
tions speak  to  us  from  these  works,  and  we  meet, 
even  to-day,  the  offerings  of  his  rich  imagination 
with  unabated  delight.  His  treatment  of  the 
pianoforte  is  also  original  and  thoroughly  adapted 
to  the  nature  of  the  instrument  as  well  as  to  the 
musical  thought,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  his 
management  of  the  orchestra  leaves,  as  we  shall 
see  later,  almost  everything  to  be  desired. 

At  the  age  of  thirty-one  he  first  turns  his  atten- 
tion to  the  greater  forms  of  music,  among  others 
to  the  symphony.  Mendelssohn's  brilliant  figure 
moving  with  playful  ease  through  all  the  domains 
of  music  was  the  shining  ideal  in  Schumann's 
early  life  and  works,  —  much  to  the  latter's  dis- 
advantage. In  the  attempt  to  imitate  Mendels- 
sohn, to  attain  the  same  finish,  —  in  the  endeavor, 
as  I  might  say,  to  be  classical,  —  his  own  origi- 
nality suffered  severely  without  his  being  able  to 
reach  his  model.  Throughout  his  life  the  spirit  of 
romance  and  fantasy  forced  its  way  into  his 
works,  but  no  longer  as  it  did  in  his  youth.  A 
strange  and  to  a  certain  extent  ingrafted  element, 
—  that  very  Mendelssohnian  polish  which  he 
struggled  in  vain  to  acquire,  —  robs  his  later 
works  of  that  spontaneity  which  charmed  us  so  in 
his  first  compositions.  His  talent,  which  bore  in 
smaller  forms  such  precious  fruit,  became,  without 
growing  richer,  pulled  in  this  way  and  that  into 


Schumann 

greater  dimensions,  and  therefore  thinner  and  more 
thread-like;  he  was  required  to  yield  more  than 
he  possessed.  His  productivity  and  versatility 
were  nevertheless  astonishingly  great,  even  in  the 
second  period  of  his  creative  work,  for  there  is 
hardly  a  musical  form  which  he  did  not  attempt^ 
Since  he,  apparently  in  consequence  of  his  being 
a  free-thinker,  was  averse  to  writing  oratorios  with 
biblical  text,  he  accordingly  chose  secular  poems, 
even  fragments  from  Goethe's  "  Faust,"  for'  his 
compositions  which  are  sort  of  half-way  between 
operas  and  oratorios.  Besides  numerous  songs, 
many  of  which  are  among  our  very  best,  Schumann 
wrote  concertos,  chamber  music  of  all  kinds,  melo- 
dramas, one  opera,  and,  as  is  to  be  expected  from 
such  a  versatile  artist,  also  symphonies.  I  sup- 
pose many  of  you  will  now  look  upon  me  as  a 
heretic  when  I  openly  acknowledge  that  I  count 
Schumann's  symphonies  as  in  no  wise  among  his 
most  important  works. 

•In  his  pianoforte  pieces  the  invention  of  little, 
but  very  expressive,  themes,  which  he  knew  how 
to  vary  and  use  in  an  ingenious  manner,  is  very 
characteristic.  *fn  his  great  symphonies  he  does 
not  succeed  with  these  themes  and  themelets,  how- 
ever warm  and  beautiful  the  feeling  may  have 
been  from  which  they  sprang.  If  you  examine 
his  orchestral  pieces  closely,  you  will  find  that  he 
was  often  forced  to  repeat  single  bars  or  groups 
of  bars  in  order  to  spin  out  the  thread  further,  be- 
cause the  theme  in  itself  is  too  small  for  such  con- 
tinuation. Sometimes  even  the  theme  itself  is 
formed  through  the  repetition  of  this  and  that 

[-9] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

phrase.  On  account  of  these  copious  tonic  and 
consequently  rhythmical  repetitions,  his  greater 
pieces  for  the  orchestra  become  naturally  monoto- 
nous. One  can  retaliate  that  the  theme  of  the 
first  movement  of  Beethoven's  C-minor  symphony 
is  much  smaller  than  Schumann'.-  themes.  Here 
is  the  real  difference  between  the  two:  in  Bee- 
thoven's work,  after  the  first  entrance  of  the  theme. 
consisting  of  four  notes,  a  simple  melody,  which 
makes  use  of  the  original  theme  only  for  rhythmical 
framework  and  not  really  for  is  own  spinning 
out,  arises  over  the  pause  of  the  first  violins  and 
the  repetition  of  the  theme-  in  A-tlat  -  I  .  and 
evolves  from  itself  up  to  the  second  subject  (en- 
trance of  the  horn-  in  K-llat  major).  But  in 
Schumann's  works  the  melodious  flow  of  the  com- 
. position  is  preserved  only  by  the  repetition  ol 
themes  as  such,  and  the  taking  refuge  in  phrases 
which  do  not  grow  out  of  the  subject.  This  weak- 
ness of  Schumann's  is  most  apparent  in  the  first 
movements,  and  in  the  finales,  of  his  symphonies, 
which  —  with  the  exception  of  the  finale  of  the 
B-flat  major  symphony,  which  is  graceful  in  its 
principal  theme,  but  not  important  —  are  conven- 
tional and  noisy.  Involuntarily  we  ask  ourselves 
why  we  must  always  rejoice  at  the  end  of  this  sym- 
phony, while  in  Beethoven's  works  in  a  similar  i 
the  thought  never  arises?  The  reason  is  because 
in  the  latter's  works  the  rejoicing  follows  with  psy- 
chological necessity  from  the  conquered  grief,  as  in 
the  C-minor  or  the  ninth,  or  is  already  contained 
in  the  elementary  ground  voice  of  the  entire  work, 
as  in  the  seventh  symphonv.     In  place  of  the  great, 

[30] 


Schumann 

broad  adagio  of  the  Beethoven  symphony  appear 
in  Schumann's  pleasing,  melodious,  lyrical  inter- 
mezzi, which  are  much  better  suited  to  the  piano- 
forte than  to  the  orchestra.  '  In  the  main,  a  Schu- 
mann symphony  is  more  effective  pla-yed  as  a 
pianoforte  duet  than  in  a  concert  hall.  'The  reason 
lies  in  a  circumstance  which  the  most  uncondi- 
tional admirers  of  Schumann  can  scarcely  avoid 
recognizing,  —  namely,  he  did  not  know  how  to 
handle  the  orchestra,  either  as  director  or  com- 
poser. He  worked  almost  always  with  the  full 
material,  but  did  not  take  the  pains  to  elaborate 
the  parts  according  to  the  character  of  the  sepa- 
rate instruments.  With  almost  childlike  stupidity 
he  expected  to  obtain  fulness  and  strength  by 
doubling  the  instruments.  Therefore',  the  instru- 
mentation is  heavy  and  inflexible,  the  color  gray 
against  gray,  the  most  important  themes,  if  played 
according  to  his  directions,  sometimes  cannot  be 
heard,  and  a  true  forte  is  about  as  impossible  as  a 
true  piano.  Whenever  I  see  the  players  working 
with  all  their  might,  and  compare,  as  a  conductor, 
the  labor  of  the  rehearsals  and  the  performance 
with  the  final  effect,  there  comes  over  me  a  feeling 
similar  to  that  I  have  towards  a  person  in  whom 
I  expected  to  find  mutual  friendship  and  was  dis- 
appointed. No  sign  of  life  gleams  in  this  apa- 
thetic orchestra,  which,  if  given  even  a  simple  Men- 
delssohnian  piece  to  play,  seems  quite  transformed. 
Schumann's  symphonies  are  composed  for  the 
pianoforte,  and  arranged  —  unhappily,  not  well  at 
that  —  for  the  orchestra.  To  be  sure,  in  these 
works  there  are  flashes  of  genius,  beautifully  deep 

[3'] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

and  moving  passages  that  recall  the  earliest  period 
of  the  composer's  work,  as  for  example  the  intro- 
duction to  the  B-flat  major  symphony,  which  prom- 
ises great  power.  The  middle  movements  up  to 
the  first  trio  of  the  scherzo,  which  is  quite  mean- 
ingless and  makes  Schumann's  weakness  most 
frightfully  apparent,  are  more  important  than  the 
first.  In  my  opinion,  the  adagio  rs  press  iro  of  the 
C-major  symphony,  with  the  ideal  ascending  and 
descending  figure  for  the  violins,  is  the  best  m< 
ment  in  all  of  his  four  symphonies. 

Schumann,  as  an  orchestral  composer,  appears 
quite  different  when  he  conceives  some  poetical  in- 
spiration that  is  congenial  to  him.  as  for  instance 
Byron's  "Manfred."  Then  he  loses  his  desire  to 
be  classical;  he  dares  to  be  what  he  is,  tie  imagi- 
native romanticist  leaning  towards  the  supernat- 
ural and  the  mysterious.  In  this  mood,  which 
was  closely  akin  to  his  nature,  he  succeeded  in 
writing  a  piece  of  music  that  can  with  all  justice 
be  called  classical.  That  wonderfully  planned 
and  unusually  lofty  overture  to  "Manfred,"  in 
which  piece  lie  was  also  more  fortunate  in  his  or 
chestration,  is  his  only  piece  of  orchestral  music 
which  can  be  compared  with  that  he  wrote  for  the 
pianoforte.  From  the  rest  of  the  "  Manfred  "  score, 
we  can  see  that,  under  certain  circumstances,  even 
an  artistic  absurdity,  like  the  melodrama,  may  be 
of  overwhelming  effect  if  a  great  spirit  wanders 
within  its  precinct.  I  am  thinking  here  above  all 
of  "The  Conjuration  of  Astarte."  This  scene,  if 
well  performed  by  actor  and  orchestra,  leaves  in 
its  overpowering  effect  no  wish  unsatisfied,  least 


Schumann 

of  all  that  Manfred  might  actually  sing.  This 
would  be  worse  than  composing  the  dialogue  in 
"Fidelio"  and  "Der  Freischütz."  I  have  no  idea 
here  of  championing  melodrama,  which  is  rising 
up  again  in  these  days,  and  which  is  even  cultivated 
and  defended  by  YYagnerians.  It  would  be  equally 
foolish  to  condemn,  for  instance,  "The  Conjuration 
of  Astarte"  merely  because  it  is  melodrama.  Espe- 
cially to-day  when  the  disintegrating  mind  more 
frequently  than  ever  lays  hold  upon  works  of  art, 
and  a  number  of  art  principles,  —  the  same  in 
German  as  art  condemnations, — which  for  the 
most  part  have  arisen  through  a  misunderstand- 
ing, or  a  senseless  echoing,  of  Richard  Wagner's 
prose  works,  are  vaguely  ringing  in  everybody's 
heads,  ready  to  trip  up  the  first  independent  com- 
poser, it  cannot  be  strongly  enough  advised  that 
each  one  shall  strengthen  within  himself  the  abil- 
ity to  accept  without  prejudice  the  impressions 
offered  him.  It  will  then  be  much  simpler  to  dis- 
tinguish between  true  and  false,  for  art  principles 
are  dead  and  unfruitful;  it  is  only  the  work  or  the 
act  of  genius,  that  is  pulsating  with  life,  let  it  ex- 
press itself  as  it  will.  Therefore  Wagner's  ex- 
planation of  the  "  Ninth  Symphony,"  and  the  place 
he  assigned  to  this  work  in  history  previous  to  his 
dramas,  will  never  be  convincing,  while  his  con- 
ducting of  this  symphony  in  1872  created  new 
pathways  in  the  art  of  conducting,  and  its  effect 
has  been  productive  of  large  results. 

Schumann,  who  always  supported  all  ideal  effort 
most  loyally  and  zealously,  after  showing  a  brief 
interest  in  the  greatest  of  his  contemporaries,  in 

[33] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

whose  glory  he  should  have  participated,  turned 
from  him  first  indifferently  and  then  hostilely. 
Those  who  love  Schumann  should  try  to  erase 
from  their  memories  his  small  grumblings  over 
"Tannhäuser."  He  turned  from  Wagner  to  herald 
a  young  musician,  just  coming  into  public  notice 
through  his  pianoforte  sonatas,  with  the  spirited 
cry  that  here  was  the  future  Messiah  of  music. 
This  young  musician  was  Johannes  Brahms. 

The  destiny  of  this  artist  was  prefigured  in 
Schumann's  prophecy.  He  was  t"  he  held  up  as 
a  counterweight  by  the  enemies  of  the  hold  opera 
reformer,  he  was  to  he  the  advocate  of  SO-called 
"'absolute"  music  in  opposition  t<>  poetical  music, 
programme  music,  and  the  music  of  the  future. 
In  truth,  Brahms  owed,  I  do  not  say  his  signifi- 
cance, but  a  great  deal  of  his  reputation,  which 
came  to  him  very  early,  in  comparison  with  other 
composers,  to  the  unceasing  efforts  of  a  band  of 
antagonists  to  the  Bayreuth  master  who  lost  no 
opportunity  of  playing  Brahms  off  against  Wag 
ner.  There  was  no  sense  in  this  sort  of  rivalry, 
for,  in  the  first  place,  in  spite  of  Wagner's  detailed 
treatise  on  the  subject,  the  difference  between  ab- 
solute music  which  is  ascribed  to  the  symphony- 
writer  in  opposition  to  the  composer  of  dramas. 
and  other  music,  is  not  of  such  weighty  impor- 
tance as  it  is  generally  believed  to-day  to  be.  Mu- 
sic that  one  can  call  "absolute."  in  a  certain  sense, 
that  is,  music  which  is  fabricated  without  any  in- 
stigation, formal  conglomerations  of  notes  and  tri- 
fling with  phrases,  flows  often  from  the  pen  of  a 
Philistine  to  art,  but  is  not  worthy  of  consideration 

[34] 


Brahms 

on  account  of  its  tediousness ;  and  it  is  therefore  a 
matter  of  indifference  whether  a  work  in  question 
coquettes  with  the  new-classical  school,  the  mod- 
ern, or  both.  '  All  other  kinds  of  music,  even  with- 
out song  or  programme,  betray  the  spiritual  in- 
fluence of  the  composer.  In  this  sense  none  of 
our  great  masters  were  absolute  musicians,  — 
Beethoven  least  of  all.  Then  there  is  something 
else  that  is  much  too  often  overlooked  by  those 
who  use  the  power  of  position,  or  of  influence,  or 
of  the  pen,  in  order  to  be  able,  through  the  degra- 
dation, slander,  or  belittlement  of  one  figure,  to 
raise  another  one  better  suited  for  their  purposes 
upon  the  shoulders  of  the  party  runners  —  yes,  is 
too  often  overlooked  by  those  who  out  of  blind 
fanaticism,  or  from  other  reasons  than  the  real 
esteem  of  what  is  offered  them,  are  friends  or  foes 
of  those  who  wish  to  mould  public  recogni- 
tion according  to  their  opinion:  —  namely,  the 
slow  but  surely  conquering  strength  of  the  truth.1 

Manufactured,  ungenuine  success  is  like  a  rush- 
ing whirlpool  caused  by  a  heavy  rain.  It  rushes 
suddenly  over  the  spot  where  usually  no  water 
flows,  bearing  with  it  all  that  comes  in  its  way. 
After  a  short  time  no  trace  of  it  is  to  be  seen. 
'True,  genuine  success  is  like  the  spring  hidden 
deep  in  the  earth.  First  it  flows  for  a  long  while 
unnoticed,  a  thin  thread  of  water,  then  becomes 
a  brook,  then  a  river,  then  a  flood,  and  finds  its 
last  outlet  in  the  sea  of  eternity.     One  may  try  to 

1  I  do  not  direct  these  remarks,  and  the  following,  against  Brahms 
himself.  One  had  only  to  know  the  plain,  straightforward  artist,  to 
be  certain  that  he  held  himself  quite  aloof  from  intrigue  and  flattery. 

[35] 


1  he  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

uproot  the  spring  or  dam  it  up,  but  it  always  gushes 
forth  anew. 

Fortunately,  it  is  an  established  fact  to-day  that 
the  zeal  of  the  "Brahmsians"  could  not  take  one 
tittle  from  Wagner's  greatness,  and  it  underlies  all 
doubt  that  Brahms  also,  in  spite  of  the  all  too 
zealous  attacks  directed  toward  him  by  certain  re- 
venging Wagnerians.  will  receive  his  befitting  place 
in  the  history  of  music.  'Time  is  the  severest 
judge.  She  devours  what  belongs  to  her.  <  >nly 
what  stands  above  her  she  cannot  touch.  Just 
how  far  Brahms  belongs  to  the  immortals  we  to- 
day cannot  with  any  certainty  decide.  Unques- 
tionably many  who  are  not  his  blind  worshippers 
would  feel  more  sympathy  for  him  if  it  were  not 
for  two  reasons:  hrst.  the  above-mentioned  fact 
of  his  being  played  off  successfully  as  a  counter- 
weight to  Wagner's  greatness,  which  is  no  Longer 
done  to-day;  second,  the  linking  of  the  three 
"B's," —  Bach,  Beethoven,  and  Brahms.  Thislast 
was  a  witticism  of  Billow's  which,  though  it  origi- 
nated for  a  personal  motive,  has  found  perhaps  all 
the  more  favor  on  that  account;  for.  let  me 
speak  it  out  now  again  after  so  many  others  have 
done  so,  —  Bulow  never  would  have  made  it  for 
Brahms's  propaganda  but  for  his  breach  with  Wag 
ner,  so  painful  to  himself  and  so  lamentable  for 
all  future  encouragement  to  art.  In  this  instance 
a  great,  and,  in  the  depth  of  his  soul,  a  noble  man 
fell  into  the  error,  so  often  committed  by  small  and 
malicious  natures,  of  making  sport  of  one  artist's 
fame  in  order  to  stifle  the  fame  of  another.  If 
one  reads  Billow's  letters,  and  compares  them  with 

[36] 


Brahms 

what  he  said  and  effected  in  the  latter  years  of  his 
life,  it  is  impossible  not  to  lament  that  such  a 
character  and  spirit  as  his  stood  off  from  Wagner's 
work,  and  hence  from  the  new  development  of 
music  in  general,  just  at  the  time  when  he  was 
especially  needed  there.  If,  in  the  case  of  other 
great  artists,  the  struggle  with  which  they  were 
forced  to  pierce  their  way  through  the  misunder- 
standing and  stupidity  of  their  contemporaries, 
causes  a  holy  light  to  enshroud  their  figures,  one 
will  remember  unwillingly  in  the  case  of  Brahms 
—  be  it  granted  that  he  took  no  active  part  in  this 
game  —  that  he  was  on  the  one  side  supported 
by  a  party,  and  on  the  other  by  a  famous  con- 
ductor, whose  slightest  whims  brought  about  a 
thousand  adherents,  and  that  both  of  these  en- 
deavored to  raise  him  up  in  opposition  to  an  artist 
far  greater  than  he.  In  the  following  I  will  try 
to  picture  the  impression  which  his  compositions 
alone  have  made  upon  me.1 

When  Brahms  presented  his  first  symphony, 
there  went  forth  the  cry  from  the  camp  of  his 
friends,  "This  is  the  tenth  symphony."  Of 
course  Beethoven's  tenth  was  meant  by  that.  Al- 
lowing for  all  exaggeration,  there  still  remains  for 
me  in  Brahms's  C-minor  symphony  a  masterly 

1  I  expressly  wish  to  state  that  I  am  no  longer  fully  agreed  with 
the  following  criticism  of  Brahms.  The  weaker  works  which  could 
be  affected  by  it  are  by  far  in  the  minority.  I  look  up  to  most  of 
the  others  in  love  and  admiration.  If  I  now,  in  spite  of  this  fact, 
leave  the  following  remarks  for  the  present  unchanged,  so  I  consider 
it  only  honorable  openly  and  frankly  to  confess  my  error.  —  F.  W. 

Translator's  Note.  —  This  note  does  not  appear  in  either 
the  German  edition  of  1S98  or  1901.  It  was  sent  me  by  the  author 
with  the  request  that  it  be  inserted  in  mv  translation.  —  M.  B.  D. 

[37] 

■VO&5S 


The  Svmphonv  since  Beethoven 

worked-out  piece  of  music  of  inflexible,  austere 
character,  which  corresponds  much  more  with  my 

idea  of  a  symphony  than  Schumann'-  and  also  is 
much  more  skilfully  orchestrated.  I  esteem  chiefly 
the  adagio,  and  above  all  the  beautiful,  slow  intro- 
duction to  the  last  movement;  the  horn,  that  after 
the  gloomy  minor  sounds  through  the  tremolo  o! 
the  strings  in  C-major  brings  out  a  very  int. 
effect,  ju>t  like  the  sun  gleaming  through  the  ris- 
ing morning  mist.'  Brahms  drew  hack  from  the 
often  vague  romanticism  of  Schumann,  and  sought 
to  a] »] »roach  the  energetic  and  plastic  mode  of  ut- 
teranceof  the  old  masters;  aboveall,of  Beethoven. 
He  succeeds  in  attaining  a  certain  resemblance  in 
the  first  and  last  movements  of  his  C  major  sym- 
phony, a  resemblance  similar  at  any  rate  to  that 
which  a  concave  mirror  uri\r-  of  our  face.  The 
second  symphony  in  I>  major  I  place  high  above 
the  Inst.  In  none  of  his  other  works  does  Brahms's 
spring  of  invention  How  so  freshly  and  spontane- 
ously as  in  this  one;  never  before  or  afterwards 
did  he  handle  the  orchestra  so  sonorously.  'The 
first  movement  is,  from  its  beginning  to  its  end, 
a  masterpiece.  The  second,  a  slower  movement, 
can  be  satisfactorily  comprehended  only  after  fre- 
quent hearing.  It  is  difficult  for  it  to  disclose 
itself  to  the  musical  mind,  hut  it  does  it  thoroughly 
in  the  end.  If  I  may  he  allowed  the  comparison, 
I  should  like  to  suggest  a  Dutch  landscape  at  sun- 
set. The  eye  at  first  sees  nothing  but  the  sky 
over  the  wide,  wide  plain;  heedlessly  and  almost 
wearily  it  lets  the  glance  pass  over  it.  Gradually 
a  feeling  arises,  quietlv,  from  afar,  and  speaks  to 


ßrah 


ms 


us.     The  intermezzo,  in  the  form  of  a  minuet,  is 
a  graceful  trifle  almost  too  insignificant  for  the 
other  three  movements.     The  finale  gives  a  pow- 
erful close  to  this  work,  which  I  esteem  above  all 
four  of  Schumann's   symphonies,  —  in  fact  even 
count  among  the  best  symphonies  which  have  been 
written  since  Beethoven  in  the  new-classical  school. 
As  in  the  case  of  Schumann,  I  consider  Brahms's 
last  two  symphonies  inferior  to  his  first  ones.     In 
these  works  reappears,  according  to  my  opinion,  a 
subtle  element,  arising  more  from  reflection  than 
from   real   artistic   feeling,    which   is   peculiar  to 
Brahms,  and  from  which  he  could  never  quite  free 
himself.     I  would  like  to  speak  more  in  detail  of 
this.     I  will  remark  right  here  that  I  prize  certain 
other  works  of  Brahms  in  the  same  degree  as  the 
second  symphony,  —  as,  for  instance,  the  "  German 
Requiem:'  several  songs,  the  "Song  of  Destiny," 
and  portions  of  his  chamber  music,  — but  I  must 
add  that  these  works  are  free,  at  least  more  than 
the  others,   from   that  pondering  element  which 
clings  to  Brahms's  creations  and  which  soon  be- 
came a  mannerism  with  him.    By  this  special  man- 
nerism  of   Brahms,   I  understand  certain  means 
which  occur  again  and  again  in  the  construction 
of    his     compositions.     A    favorite   device    with 
Brahms  is  syncopation :  that  is,  displacing  the  bass 
against  the  rhythm  of  the  upper  parts,  or  vice  versa, 
so  that  the  one  hobbles,  as  it  were,  after  the  other! 
This  syncopation  is  a  peculiar  thing.     Think  of  a 
simple  melody,  consisting  of  crotchets,  with  a  har- 
monic accompaniment,  and  then  let  the  bass  notes 
not  come  exactly  with  the  corresponding  notes  of 

[39] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

the  melody,  but  always  a  quaver  behind;  then 
the  whole  will  assume  a  very  strange  and  learned 
aspect,  without  gaining  in  intrinsic  value.  It  is 
just  as  if  some  one  were  to  make  a  most  solemn 
face  to  say  the  most  simple  thing  in  the  world. 
Furthermore,  Brahms  loved  to  combine  a  rhythm 
of  two  beats  with  one  of  three  beats,  thus  pro- 
ducing a  form  which,  if  used  on  a  long  stretch  or 
often,  causes  a  feeling  of  disagreeable  vacillation. 
Another  of  his  mannerisms  is  t< i  let  the  u\ >] >er  v<  rice, 
or  oftener  the  middle  parts  or  the  bass,  be  accom- 
panied by  thirds,  or  still  oftener  by  sixths,  ami 
then  again  to  mix  up  the  parts  with  artificial  syn- 
copation.  Entire  sections  of  his  works  are  built 
up  in  this  way.  There  are  certain  tone  combina- 
tions, and  indeed  actual  themes,  made  from  the 
fifth  of  the  common  chord,  together  with  the  third 
above,  —  always  avoiding  the  keynote,  —  which  we 
come  across  so  frequently  that  a  clever  causeur 
recently  pointed  out  the  phrase 


_r_  ^ 

-&- 

as  the  "Brahms  leit-motif."  If  you  look  for  these 
mannerisms  in  Brahms's  various  kinds  of  compo 
sitions,  you  will  find  my  statements  confirmed,  even 
though  many  of  you  will  not  agree  with  my  de- 
ductions. Indeed,  I  believe  that  the  complicate«  1 
character  of  the  harmony,  rhythm,  and  melody, 
(which,  by  the  way,  is  called  by  his  partisans ' '  de}  >t  h 
of  meaning")   resulting  from   these  mannerisms, 

[40] 


Brahms 

and  which  destroys  the  clearness  of  the  musical 
impression,  is  the  reason  why  so  many  of  Brahms's 
works  leave  the  impression  of  being  artificial  and 
unnatural,  and  fail  to  please  in  spite  of  all  the 
masterly  technical  construction.  Nor  can  it  be 
denied  that  this  very  complicated  character  of  the 
works  produces  a  certain  monotony  which  is  in 
marked  contrast  to  mere  simplicity.  At  all  times, 
and  from  every  point  of  view,  simplicity  will  have 
a  happy,  animated  effect;  it  will  ever  appear  new 
and  young;  we  admire  it  even  to-day  in  Haydn 
and  Mozart  after  a  century  has  elapsed.  But 
monotony,  particularly  if  it  comes  from  excessive 
complication,  will  first  attract  our  thought  and  in- 
vestigation, but  then  tire  us,  and  at  last  produces 
that  dangerous  and  art-killing  poison,  feared  by 
all  as  greatly  as  death,  —  the  poison  of  boredom. 
Seldom  are  Brahms's  compositions  really  simple, 
but  when  they  are,  they  are  always  beautiful,  —  for 
instance,  the  "Feldeinsamkeit,"  the  "Sappische 
Ode,"  and  the  first  movement  of  the  "German 
Requiem."  But  if  we  receive  the  impression  that 
he  was  trying  to  write  simply,  in  which  case  the 
endeavor  to  strike  a  popular  tone  becomes  con- 
spicuous, then  the  invention  is  insignificant,  and 
reminds  one  of  the  weaker  " Songs  without  Words" 
by  Mendelssohn;  for  example,  I  refer  to  the  C- 
minor  movement  of  his  third  symphony.  A 
French  critic  has  written  of  Brahms:  "II  tra- 
vaille  extremement  bien  avec  ses  idees  qu'il  n'a 
pas."  This  assertion  is  doubtless  too  severe;  but 
if,  after  noble  thoughts  and  periods,  the  composition 
is  distorted  by  syncopation,  by  continual  combi- 

[4.] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

nations  of  unequal  rhythms,  and  by  those  curious 
additions  of  thirds  and  sixths,  and  then  here  and 
there  comes  in  that  artificial  simplicity,  one  re- 
ceives the  impression  that  the  composer  wished  to 
stop  the  flight  of  his  own  genius,  and,  fearing  the 
betrayal   of   his   innermost  feelings,  preferred    to 
clothe  himself  in  silence  and  rather  let  the  listener 
divine  what  he  wanted  to  say,  than  actually  say  it. 
It  is  a  bad  sign  when  a  composer  can  be  con- 
victed of  a  mannerism.     Who  could  do  this  with 
the  great  masters?     How  similar  Haydn's  com- 
positions are,  and  yet  how  different;  what  a  gulf 
lies  between  " The  Marriage  of  Figaro"  and  "The 
Magic  Flute!"     Who  could  speak  seriously  of  a 
Beethoven   or  a  Wagner  mannerism?      Let  any 
one  who  does  not  believe  this,  attempt  to  parody 
the  great  masters;  that  is,  to  present  to  us  in  an 
exaggerated  way  whatever  their  mannerism  is  sup- 
posed to  be.    He  would  either  not  succeed,  or  else 
only  very  clumsily,  as  do  those  who.  for  example, 
work  Wagner  themes  into  quadrilles  or  marches 
—  which  is  blasphemy,  but  not  parody.     But  it  is 
very  easy  to  write  a  parody  on  Brahms,  and  it  has 
already  been  done  very  brilliantly  by  Moritz  Mosz- 
kowsky.     The  same  may  be  said  of  actual  imita- 
tion.    When   we   hear   modern    chamber    music, 
written  in  Brahms's  style,  oftentimes,  if  we  did  not 
know  the  composer's  name,  we  would  accept   it 
in  good  faith  for  a  piece  by  Brahms  himself;  while 
I  believe  that  no  one  hearing  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances a  piece  out  of  an  opera  of  one  of  our 
"New  German"  composers  would  confuse  it  with 
one  of  Wagner's. 

M 


Brahms 

I  have  not  contented  myself  after  the  custom  of 
many  Wagnerians,  to  stop  my  ears  and  sneer,  in 
imitation  of  respective  places  in  Wagner's  col- 
lected works,  whenever  I  am  confronted  by  the 
artistic  personality  of  Brahms.  I  have  gone  over 
and  studied  deeply  the  greater  part  of  his  works. 
When  I  dissected  this  kind  of  music  my  intellect 
always  grew.  I  admired  the  work  and  the  con- 
struction, and  found  therein  the  same  joy  that  a 
physician  perhaps  feels  when  he  lays  bare  the 
muscles  of  a  beautifully  developed  dead  body. 
If  I  let  it  work  upon  me  as  a  whole,  I  experience, 
except  by  the  works  already  mentioned,  that  sick- 
ening faintness  that  must  come  over  the  same  phy- 
sician when  he  dares  to  wish  to  bring  to  life  again 
the  corpse  which  he  has  but  just  dissected. 
"  Brahms  is  always  a  master  of  form.  His  works 
appear  in  faultless  technical  perfection.  But 
warm,  pulsating  life  I  have  discovered  only  in  a 
few  of  them,  but  these  are,  indeed,  the  more  valu- 
able because  in  them  beautiful  thoughts  are  united 
with  perfect  form,  and  one  feels  at  once  that  it  was 
permitted  the  author  to  pour  forth  in  a  happy 
hour  a  free  utterance  of  his  individual  nature. 
What  was  it  that  hindered  him  so  often  from  ex- 
pressing himself  in  this  way?  This  seems  to  me 
to  be  the  answer:  he  believed  himself  to  be  what 
Schumann  had  prophesied  and  what  his  later  parti- 
sans constantly  claimed  him  to  be,  —  "the  Mes- 
siah of  absolute  music,"  the  et successor  of  Bee- 
thoven." Incidentally,  while  speaking  of  his  first 
symphony,  I  have  already  pointed  to  an  exterior 
resemblance  to  Beethoven.     We  see  also  many  a 

[43] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

time  how  he  strove,  without  falling  into  reminis- 
cence, to  imitate  the  peculiarities  of  style  of  the 
last  period  of  the  master's  works,  those  bold,  se- 
verely harmonic  transitions,  those  manifold  rhyth- 
mic combinations  (which  became  in  the  case  of 
Brahms  his  typical  syncopation),  and  those  often 
apparently  scattered  melodious  steps.     But  it  was 
never  permitted  him  to  attain  to  Beethoven's  pro- 
foundness, which  the  artist  must  possess  within  his 
own  nature.     Brahms  could  only  assume  the  mask. 
Thus  in  his  works,  in  spite  of  the  outward  simi- 
larity, we  find  only  the  abstract    idea,  wh'le 
Beethoven's  is  revealed  the  real  essence  of  mu 
Brahms's  music  as  a  whole  —  if  I  may  be  all  »wed 
the    expression  —  is    scientific    music,    a    playing 
with  tone  forms  and  phrases,  but  not  that  most 
expressive    and    comprehensible    world  language 
which  our  great  masters  could  and  had  to  speak. 
that  language  which  arouses  us  and  strikes  to  our 
very  souls,  because  we  recognize   in   it  our  own 
selves  with  our  own  joys  and  our  own  sorrows, 
our  own  struggles  and  our  own  victories.     Their 
music  is  artistic.     Brahms's  is  artificial.    It  is  not 
akin  to  Beethoven's,  but  lies  at  the  opposite  pole, 
—  is  just  what  Beethoven's  music  is  not.     Its  char- 
acter is,  therefore,  really  more  abstract,  repelling 
those  who  would  approach,  and  stimulating  the  in- 
tellect more  than  the  feelings.     It  is  a  character- 
istic experience  of  mine  that  those  works  of  Brahms 
which  attract  my  attention  as  being  his  most  re- 
markable productions  are  by  no  means  considered 
as  the  best  by  strong  "Brahmsians."     They  point 
out  among  others  the  " Triumph-lied,"  the  fourth 

[44] 


Bruckner 

symphony,  the  clarinet  quintet,  which  are  to  my 
mind  bare  tone-scaffolding.  And  just  this  cool 
style  of  composing,  oftentimes  showing  a  marked 
tendency  for  a  feeling  no  longer  free,  but  reflective 
and  mannered,  as  well  as  the  fact  that  Brahms 
went  out  of  his  way  to  avoid  any  purely  sensuous 
charm  of  sound,  either  in  melody  or  instrumen- 
tation, that  gave  him  the  reputation  of  having 
escaped  the  erroneous  ways  of  the  modern  com- 
posers. ^ 

He  is  probably  the  last  great  artist  who  will 
deserve  this  reputation.  New  thoughts  about  mu- 
sic have  come  from  another  side,  new  inventions 
have  broken  paths  through  for  themselves,  new 
composers  have  taken  up  the  struggle  with  the 
guardians  of  the  classic  ideals  of  form.  We  may 
say  to-day  that  these  last  were  in  the  end  the  vic- 
tors. Before  we  turn  our  attention  to  the  so- 
called  " modern  school,"  I  must  mention  several 
isolated  artists  who  were  certainly  influenced  by 
that  school  but  who  did  not  belong  to  it,  and  stand, 
therefore,  as  connecting-links  between  the  two 
schools. 

During  the  last  ten  years  many  a  time  there  has 
been  mentioned  the  name  of  a  powerful  rival  in 
connection  with  Brahms,  —  a  rival  who  arose  in 
Brahms's  second  home-city,  Vienna,  which  seems 
destined  to  be  the  city  of  symphony- writers.  '•  An- 
ton Bruckner,  although  he  was  much  older  than 
Brahms,  came  into  public  recognition  much  later. 
His  reputation  was  by  no  means  general,  but  rather 
confined  itself  to  a  special  party.  What  attracts 
us  in  this  composer  is  his  wealth  of  invention,  the 

[45] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

pregnancy  of  his  themes,  and  the  astonishing  long- 
windedness   of  his   melodies.     He   was   a   richly 
talented  musician.     One  would  almost  be  tempted 
to  compare  him  to  his  great  compatriot  Schubert 
in  this  respect  if  he  had  only  produced  some  work 
which  kept  on  a  uniform  level  of  excellence  so  as 
to  be  truly  called  a  masterpiece.     This  is  not  the 
case,  for,  unfortunately,  his  ability  to  utilize  his  in- 
spirations, to  bind  them  one  to  another,  and  so 
build  up  the  composition  organically,  did  not  keep 
pace  with  his  inventive  powers.     I  cannot  share 
the  opinion  of  his  pupils  and  admirers,  that  he  was 
a  great  master  of  counterpoint.     He  may  have  Ix^en 
so  as  a  teacher;  but  in  his  compositions  the  purely 
technical  part  is  often  awkward,  the  polyphonic 
texture  of  the  parts  often  doubtful  and  lacking  in 
clearness,  and  the  organic  structure  always  inter- 
broken.     His   wonderful    themes    are    more    like 
pearls  strung  on  a  string  than  organically  connect»  1 . 
This  is  why  Bruckner's  power  usually  deserts  him 
in  the  finales  of  his  symphonies,   which  should 
contain  the  climax,  and  causes  the  last  movement 
to  be  inferior  to  the  others,  which  is  not  favorable 
to  his  success.     This  also  explains  the  breaking 
down,  fragmentary  manner  of  his  compositions,  — 
a  manner  which  does  not  admit  of  pure  enjoy- 
ment.    One  is  almost  inclined  to  wish  that  he  had 
had  fewer  inspirations,  but  that  the  structure  of  his 
creations  had  been  more  logical,  uniform,  and  car- 
ried out  with  a  more  definite  aim  in  view.    vt)ften 
the  noblest  thoughts  flutter  away  into  an  ineffective 
nothingness  because  they  come  into  being  but  are 
not  wTorked  out.     This  is  the  more  irritating  since 

[46] 


Bruckner 

his  themes  resemble  Wagner's  dramatically  sym- 
bolic motives.  Could  they  but  have  been  worked 
out  psychologically  by  a  masterly  hand,  Bruckner 
would  have  stood  before  us  a  shining  light  and 
led  us  on  to  make  comparisons.  Bruckner  also 
lapses  into  mannerisms.  Endings  over  an  oft  re- 
peated bass  passage,  —  in  imitation  of  the  close 
of  the  first  movement  of  the  "  Ninth  Symphony,"  — 
certain  peculiarly  empty-sounding  passages  (his 
admirers  call  them  passages  soaring  far  from  the 
world)  in  his  slower  movements,  thematic  figures, 
with  a  simultaneous  sounding  of  these  same  fig- 
ures in  the  counter-movement  as  if  they  had  worn 
themselves  out  playing,  and,  finally,  those  unbear- 
able general  pauses  and  breathing  pauses  which 
for  the  most  part  give  the  impression  that  he  has 
lost  his  way,  are  mannerisms  found  in  all  of  his 
works  with  which  I  am  acquainted. 

What  elicits  our  sympathy  for  Bruckner  both  as 
man  and  artist,  and  also  what  had  a  great  deal  to 
do  with  his  future  reputation,  was  his  large  ideal- 
ism, a  characteristic  altogether  too  rare  in  our 
day.  Think  of  this  schoolmaster  and  organist, 
risen  from  the  poorest  surroundings  and  totally 
lacking  in  education,  but  steadfastly  composing 
symphonies  of  dimensions  hitherto  unheard  of, 
crowded  with  difficulties  and  solecisms  of  all  kinds, 
which  were  the  horrors  of  conductors,  performers, 
listeners,  and  critics,  because  they  interfered  sadly 
with  their  comfort.  Think  of  him  thus  going  un- 
swervingly along  his  way  toward  the  goal  he  had 
set  himself,  in  the  most  absolute  certainty  of  not 
being  noticed,  and  of  attaining  nothing  but  failure 

[47] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

—  and  then  compare  him  with  our  fashionable 
composers,  borne  on  by  daily  success  and  adver- 
tisement, who  puzzle  out  their  trifles  with  the  ut- 
most rafjinerie ;  and  then  bow  in  homage  to  this 
man,  great  and  pathetic  in  his  naivete  and  his 
honesty.  I  confess  that  scarcely  anything  in  the 
new  symphonic  music  can  weave  itself  about  me 
with  such  wonderful  magic  as  can  a  single  theme 
or  a  few  measures  from  Bruckner.  I  am  think- 
ing, for  example,  of  the  beginning  of  the  "  Romantic 
Symphony."  T<  be  sure,  this  magic  diminishes  in 
the  course  of  the  work,  and  vanishes  more  and 
more  as  one  studies  the  piece,  for  great  and  beauti- 
ful sentiments  continue  to  satisfy  us  only  when 
they  are  presented  in  artistically  perfect  form.  In 
the  strife  between  the  Brahms  and  Bruckner  fac 
tions  in  Vienna  I  was  once  asked  my  opinion  of 
the  two  men.  I  replied  that  I  wished  that  nature 
had  given  us  one  master  in  whom  the  character- 
istics of  both  composers  were  united,  —  the  mon- 
strous imagination  of  Bruckner  with  the  eminent 
possibilities  of  Brahms.  That  would  have  given 
once  more  a  great  artist. 

Here  honorable  mention  must  also  be  made  of 
an  artist  quite  worthy  of  celebration,  who  was  re- 
lated to  Bruckner  in  his  high  idealism,  and  who. 
according  to  my  opinion,  stands  higher  as  a  writer 
of  one-act  operas  than  as  a  dramatic  or  symphonic 
composer.  I  refer  to  "Alexander  Ritter,  the  friend 
and  nephew  of  Wagner. 

Of  other  German  composers  I  mention  next  that 
most  prolific  writer^  Joachim  Raff,  whose  principal 
works  are  his  poetic  symphonv  "Im  Walde"  and 

M] 


Foreign   Composers 

the  romantic  "Leonore  ;  "  Robert  Volkmann,  who 
in  his  B-minor  trio  above  all  others  has  created 
a  work  of  first  rank ;  Felix  Dräsecke ;  and  Hermann 
Goetz,  who  died  so  young,  and  who  in  fineness  of 
feeling  was  akin  to  the  poet-musician,  Peter  Cor- 
nelius. It  is  incomprehensible  to  me  how  his  de- 
lightful comic  opera,  "The  Taming  of  the  Shrew, " 
has  vanished  from  the  repertoires  of  the  opera- 
houses  as  completely  as  his  F-major  symphony, 
which  surely  came  from  the  "quiet  and  sacred 
recesses  of  the  heart"  as  its  motto  says,  has  dis- 
appeared from  concert  programmes.  What  other 
people  than  the  Germans  would  dare  pride  them- 
selves of  possessing  among  their  stars  of  second 
magnitude  a  Hermann  Goetz,  and  then  afterwards 
seize  those  personalities  tending  most  towards  that 
superficiality,  which  is  brought  in  with  some  skill 
and  claims  from  foreign  countries,  and  often  neg- 
lect their  own  most  worthy  creations?  Will  it 
never  be  otherwise  ?  is  the  question  so  often  asked, 
but  seldom  spoken  out  with  complaint  and  threat; 
and  this  is  the  call  to  those  summoned  for  the 
practical  answering  of  this  question. 

I  must  lastly  refer  to  some  important  sympho- 
nies by  foreign  composers  which  up  to  this  time 
have  not  found  their  deserved  recognition  in  Ger- 
many; and  the  example  given  here  by  me  of  di- 
recting them  has  been  little  followed.  The  latest 
of  these  works  is  the  symphony  in  D-minor  by  the 
Danish  composer,  Christian  Sinding,  a  piece  born 
of  the  gloomy  romanticism  of  the  North,  often 
harsh  and  rugged,  but  having  a  bold,  powerful 
verve.     The  B-minor  symphony  by  the  Russian 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

composer,  Alexander  Borodin,  is  of  a  genuine  na- 
tional character,  a  masterpiece  of  its  kind,  and  the 
most  significant  work  of  the  new  Russian  school 
that  I  know.  This  piece  is  so  pregnant  and  char- 
acteristic that  I  always  feel  as  if  one  merely  from 
hearing  this  music  must  get  a  picture  of  Russia 
and  her  people,  even  if  one  had  never  visited  that 
land.  As  far  as  regards  public  recognition,  the 
French  composers,  C6sar  Franck  and  Camille 
Saint-Saens,  have  fared  much  better.  The  former 
has  created  in  his  D-minor  symphony  a  signifi- 
cant work;  the  latter  has  acquitted  himself  hap- 
pily and  successfully  in  the  line  of  symphonies  and 
symphonic  poems.  At  a  somewhat  earlier  date 
Vincent  d'Indy,  who  was  influenced  by  modern 
German  art,  produced  some  noteworthy  things  in 
France.  The  compositions  of  the  young  Russian. 
Alexander  Glazounow,  offer  much  that  is  interest- 
ing. A  talented  maiden-attempt  in  the  symphony 
has  come  from  the  hand  of  Joseph  Suk.  Carl 
Goldmark's  "Ländliche  Hochzeit  "  (a  country 
wedding)  has  found  considerable  circulation. 
Those  are  not  peasants  that  we  see  in  this  com- 
position, but  spoilt  townfolk  who  have  conceived 
the  idea  of  celebrating  the  wedding  of  a  bridal 
pair  of  their  acquaintance  in  the  country.  Often 
we  perceive  the  perfume  of  the  drawing-room  in 
those  sounds  which  are  supposed  to  be  pastoral. 
Aside  from  this,  Goldmark's  work  is  a  brilliant, 
interesting  piece  of  music,  worthy  of  performance 
and  of  universal  applause.  Let  me  also  notice  A. 
Rubinstein's  honest  endeavor  to  awaken  the  classic 
symphony  to  new  life.  Onlv  once,  however,  in  some 

[5°] 


Tschaikowsky 

of  the  movements  of  his  "Ocean  Symphony" 
has  he  succeeded  in  rising  above  the  dull  string- 
ing together  of  musical  phrases.  With  immens- 
success   the    "Symphonie   Pathetique  "   of  Peter 

rschaikowsky  has  made  its  way  through  the  con- 
cert halls  of  Germany  during  the  last  four  years 
calling  attention  also  to  the  earlier  works  of  this 
composer.     It  resembles  an  effective  drama    rich 
in  exciting  and  fascinating  situations,  and  its  effect 
upon  the  public  never  fails.     It  is  said  that  Tscha'- 
kowsky  himself  feared  that  it  never  would  be  con- 
sidered as  a  symphony.     It  is  true  that  it  departs 
Irom  the  usual  form,   both  in    the  arrangement 
and  the  construction  of  the  separate  movements 
In  the  first  movement  the  form  may  be  traced,  but 
the  construction  is  free.     The  middle  movements 
are   quite  concise,  while   the  last   is   free   again 
Moreover,  this  comes  from  the  adagio,  whkh  as  a 
rule,  stands  in  the  middle  of  a  symphony  but  the 
fundamental  idea  demanded  a  close  which  should 
lose  itself  in  gloomy  darkness.     It  is  said  that  the 
foreboding  of  death  guided  the  composer's  pen  as 
he  wrote  this  work;    he  therefore  departed   from 
the  usual  form  for  the  sake  of  a  poetical  idea. 

It  may  serve  for  a  definite  purpose  in  the  sec- 
ond part  of  this  book  to  turn  our  attention  to  a 
consideration  of  the  so-called  modern  school,  and 
writers  of  programme  music. 

About  the  time  of  Beethoven's  death  there 
arose  among  our  Western  neighbors  in  France  a 
remarkable  artist,  whose  greatness  and  far-spread- 
ing significance  in  music  have  been  recognized  only 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

for  a  comparatively  short  time,  —  namely.  Hector 
Berlioz.  The  most  remarkable  of  his  early  pieces, 
the  "Symphonie  Fantastique"  (Opus  14a),  is  so 
original  that  we  are  not  surprised,  considering  the 
common  tendency  arising  everywhere  to  denounce 
the  new,  rather  than  prove  its  worth  by  careful 
investigation,  that  such  a  work  was  looked  upon 
as  a  monstrosity  by  such  eminent  men  as  Cheru- 
bini, and  was  absolutely  incomprehensible  to  the 
general  public,  upon  whom  it  rather  made  the  im- 
pression of  a  violent  fright.  Berlioz,  during  his 
lifetime,  obtained  much  the  same  effect  with  his 
later  works,  although  Liszt's  untiring  efforts  at 
length  won  some  consideration  for  them  in  Ger- 
many. It  was  not  until  long  after  his  death, 
through  repeated  and  excellent  performances,  first 
by  Biilow  and  later  by  others,  that  the  high  worth 
of  his  compositions  became  felt  and  understood, 
in  spite  of  the  many  external  peculiarities.  At  last 
the  sweet  kernel  has  been  found  within  the  rough 
shell. 

If  we  ask  ourselves,  with  Berlioz's  intimate 
friends,  how  it  was  possible  for  such  inspired 
works,  which  are  now  so  universally  admired,  to 
have  been  looked  upon  for  decades  as  the  pro- 
ductions of  a  half-diseased  mind,  we  find  three 
possible  explanations.  At  first  acquaintance"  Ber- 
lioz's musical  invention  appears  reserved  and  un- 
approachable. None  of  his  melodious  phrases 
bear  a  character  like,  e.g.,  the  celebrated  clarinet 
melody  in  the  "Freischütz  Overture,"  or  like 
Schubert's  themes  which  irresistibly  bewitch  the 
ear  and  heart  of  the  listener.     We  imagine  at  first 

[5*] 


Berlioz 

that  we  find  a  coolness  and  even  a  harshness  in 
those  very  strains  which  are  seeking  to  express 
passion  and  consuming  fire.     Berlioz's  music  re- 
minds one  of  those  rare  human  physiognomies 
which  appear  unsympathetic  until,  after  closer  ob- 
servation, we  discern  the  mental  storms  and  strug- 
gles of  which  those  angular  features,  those  deep, 
scarred   furrows,  and  those  sad,  weird  eyes  give 
testimony.     Any  one  who  has  studied  a  good  pic- 
ture of  Berlioz  will  understand  my  meaning.  ^An- 
other reason  why  he  remained  for  so  long  a  time 
misunderstood  is  his  abnormal  and  grotesque  bold- 
ness in  instrumentation.     Not  only  does  he  bring 
into  play  a  larger  number  of  orchestral  means 
than  usual,  but  his  manner  of  using  these  means, 
the  great  demands  that  he  makes  upon  the  tech- 
nical skill  of  the  musicians,  his  extraordinary  deli- 
cate sense  for  the  combinations  of  tone  color,  his 
full  appreciation  of  clearness  in  design,  all  these 
give  to  his  treatment  of  the  orchestra  that  pecul- 
iar coloring  which  did    not  exist  before  him  and 
has  not  been  imitated  since.     This,  likewise,  has 
induced  ignorant  or  ill-willed  critics  to  say  that 
Berlioz  first  invented  the  instrumental  effect  and 
then  adapted  the  music  to  it.     And  yet  his  instru- 
mentation does  not  show  that  sensuous  element 
which  seems  to  carry  us  along  on  the  waves  of 
sound,  as  in  Weber's  orchestra,  which  was  also 
built  up  with  wonderful  boldness  as  regards  the 
various  utilization  of  the  instruments,  and  as  it 
finally  appears  in  the  hitherto  most  perfect  orches- 
tra, that  of  Wagner.    We  are  dazzled  by  Berlioz's 
orchestration,  but  not  intoxicated ;  it  is  bright  sun- 

[53] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

shine  upon  light  green  leaves  around  which  a  clear, 
pure  air  is  playing;  the  deep  fragrance  of  the  spicy 
shade  in  the  pine  wood  is  lacking.  The  third 
cause  which  renders  the  understanding  of  Berlioz 
difficult  lies  in  the  materials  and  poetical  subjects 
which  he  chose  for  his  works,  as  also  in  the  rela- 
tion in  which  his  music  stands  to  those  subjects, 
and  the  way  in  which  it  illustrates  them. 

Let  us  first  consider  the  "Symphonie  Fantas- 
tique."  Berlioz  has  headed  it  with  a  programme 
which  describe>  each  <»f  the  movements  separately. 
This  is  an  indication  of  tue  poetical  tenor  that  the 
listener  is  to  bear  in  mind  the  while  the  symphony 
is  being  played.  This  proceeding  was  in  no  wise 
extraordinary.  It  would  be  very  gratifying  if  some 
musical  historian  would  establish  the  fact  once  fur 
all  that  what  is  lightly  called  "programme  music," 
nowadays,  is  by  no  means  an  invention  of  modern 
composers.  The  endeavor  to  express  definite 
thoughts,  yes,  even  events,  by  music  is,  apparently, 
as  old  as  music  itself.  We  find  compositions 
bearing  titles  and  explanations  among  the  old 
Dutch  and  Italian  composers  just  as  frequently 
as  with  the  German  masters  before  Bach.  Thayer, 
in  his  excellent  biography  of  Beethoven,  mentions 
a  number  of  long-forgotten  compositions,  dating 
from  the  beginning  of  the  century,  which  either 
bore  titles  for  the  whole  piece,  or  had  special 
names  for  the  separate  movements.  — for  example, 
general  title,  "The  Naval  Battle:"  first  movement, 
the  beating  of  the  drums;  second  movement,  war- 
like music  and  marches;  third  movement,  motion 
of  the  ship;    fourth  movement,  cruising  over  the 

[54] 


Berlioz 

waves ;  fifth  movement,  firing  of  the  cannon ;  sixth 
movement,  cries  of  the  wounded;  seventh  move- 
ment, victorious  shouts  of  the  triumphant  fleet. 
Great  battles  and  events  of  political  importance 
have  always  excited  the  imagination  of  contem- 
porary musicians.  Beethoven  himself  did  not  dis- 
dain to  compose  a  piece  in  honor  of  Wellington's 
victory,  and  in  Wagner's  "Kaiser  March"  we  hear 
the  artistic  echo  of  the  successful  war.  Espe- 
cially important  appears  to  us  the  following  pro- 
gramme quoted  by  Thayer:  "The  delightful  life 
of  a  shepherd,  broken  in  upon  by  a  thunder-storm, 
which,  however,  passes  over,  and  then  the  na'ive 
joy  on  that  account."  Who  does  not  here  recog- 
nize the  suggestion  for  a  pastoral  symphony? 
Thayer  adds  the  very  fitting  comment,  which  is 
also  very  significant  in  regard  to  the  so-called  pro- 
gressive artists  of  to-day,  that  it  was  not  so  much 
Beethoven's  ambition  to  find  new  forms  for  musi- 
cal presentation  as  it  was  to  have  his  compositions 
excel  in  those  forms  which  had  already  been  de- 
veloped. Every  good  opera  overture  has  its  pro- 
gramme, namely,  the  text-book  of  the  opera  which 
is  to  follow;  and  Spohr  has  not  hesitated  in  his 
overture  to  "Faust"  to  add,  besides  that,  a  de- 
tailed description  of  the  subjects  he  wishes  a  lis- 
tener to  imagine  while  he  hears  it.  In  the  course 
of  this  book  it  will  be  clearly  expressed  that  the 
programme  is  no  wise  a  reflection  on  the  compo- 
sition for  which  it  is  supplied,  unless,  as  in  some 
cases,  the  music  places  itself  in  a  false  relation  to 
the  programme,  so  that  it  seems  to  revolt  against 
its  own  nature  and  resolves  into  non-music. 

[55] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

Berlioz's  "Symphonie  Fantastique"  is  said  to 
represent  the  feverish  dream  of  a  young  artist  who. 
in  despair  at  having  been  refused  by  his  beloved, 
has  poisoned  himself  with  opium.     The  dose,  too 
small  to  kill  him,  produces  in  his  mind  first  pleas- 
ant and  then  later   horrible    images.     The  sepa- 
rate movements,  explained  more  in  detail  through 
the  programme,  are  named,  —  "Dreams  and  Pas- 
sions," "A  Ball,"  "Secne  in  the  Country,"  "  March 
to  the  Scaffold."  "Witches' Sabbath."     Later  Ber- 
lioz added  a  second  part   "Lelio,"  a  melodrama, 
incomparable  in  worth  to  the  symphony.     In  this 
he  lets  the  artist  awaken  from  his  sleep  and  speak, 
and  turning  again  to  his  occupations  find  release 
from   the  grief  of  love.      Imagine   how   baffled    a 
public  of  that  day  must  have  been  at  the  bold  at- 
tempt to  express  in  music  so  unheard-of  a  subject. 
And  yet  how  grandly  Berlioz  has  succeeded  in  do- 
ing the  apparently  impossible  without  in  the  least 
violating  the  form  of  the  symphony  or  falling  into 
empty  tone-painting.     All  five  movements  are  per- 
fect pieces  of  music,  ingenious  and  powerful  in  in- 
vention,   construction,    and    instrumentation,   and 
needing  no  further  explanation  for  their  right  of 
existence.     When  Berlioz  became  more  certain  of 
the  purely  musical  perfection  of  his  work,  he  said 
that  the  programme  might   be  omitted,    for  the 
work  must  be  comprehensible  without  it;  he  asked 
only  that  the  names  of  the  separate  movements 
might  remain.     A  listener,  endowed  with  a  little 
imagination   and   knowing   that   the   third    move- 
ment was  called  a  "Scene  in  the  Country,"  would 
easily  discover  at  the  close,  where  the  cantilena 

[56] 


Berlioz 

of  the  English  horn  is  accompanied  by  a  soft  roll 
on  the  drums,  that  the  composer  intends  to  imi- 
tate a  tune  played  on  a  shepherd's  reed,  inter- 
rupted by  distant  thunder;  this  is  similar  to  Bee- 
thoven's "  Scene  by  the  Brook,"  where  the^  songs 
of  the  birds  are  imitated.  In  both  cases  this  imi- 
tation of  nature  is  by  no  means  inartistic,  a  re- 
proach flung  at  Brahms  and  even  at  Beethoven  in 
his  time,  for  it  springs  from  the  absolute  under- 
lying mood  of  the  whole  composition,  and  could 
only  come  from  a  soul  highly  capable  of  appreci- 
ating the  wonders  of  nature  and  then  giving  them 
out  again  in  artistic  form.  In  both  cases  the  clos- 
ing measures,  which  imitate  nature,  are  musically 
and  logically  connected  with  what  goes  before, 
and  are  therefore  perfectly  intelligible  from  the 
music  alone  without  the  programme.  In  the  case 
of  Berlioz  the  imitation  of  nature  gives  the  oppor- 
tunity for  an  especially  beautiful  and  formal  round- 
ing off  of  the  whole.  The  opening  of  the  move- 
ment, before  the  entrance  of  the  real  theme,  is 
already  formed  by  a  duet  of  two  shepherd's  reeds 
(oboe  and  English  horn),  and  the  end  seems  to  be 
only  a  varied  repetition  of  the  beginning.  For  the 
last  movement  the  title  "Witches'  Sabbath"  would 
have  been  quite  sufficient,  for  the  movement  con- 
sists of  an  introduction  which  prepares  one  for  the 
weird  character  of  the  piece,  of  a  chorale  executed 
by  deep  wind-instruments  (a  sort  of  parody  upon 
the  "Dies  Irae"),  and  a  splendid  fugato  culmi- 
nating in  the  combination  of  the  chorale  with  the 
theme  of  the  fugue.  It  is  only  a  question  whether 
the  public,   knowing  only  the  titles  of  the  five 

[57] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

movements,  would  be  able  to  discover  the  internal 
relation  between  the  first  three  and  the  last  two. 
The  programme,  which  explains  that  the  whole 
work  is  only  intended  to  be  the  picturing  of  an 
ecstatic  dream,  may  be  freely  used  at  performances, 
because  the  thoroughly  musical  character  of  the 
symphony  guards  the  listener  against  inartistic  in- 
terpretations, and  only  excites  his  fancy,  which  in 
reality  is  the  true  object  of  the  title.1 

If  we  examine  more  closely  the  musical  contents 
of  this  work,  we  will  find  that  one  theme  runs 
through  all  live  movements, — a  decided  devia- 
tion from  earlier  symphonies.  In  his  dreams, 
represented  musically  in  the  symphony,  the  figure 
of  his  beloved  one  incessantly  pursues  the  young 
artist  in  varied  forms  and  surroundings.  It  as- 
sumes the  character  of  a  melody  called  by  Berlioz 
an  idee  fixe;  and  this  melody  while  retaining  its 
structure,  as  concerns  the  mutual  relation  of  in- 
tervals, is  changed  in  rhythm  and  expression  to 
suit  the  situation  about  to  be  represented.  The 
idee  fixe  appears  in  noble  simplicity  in  the  first 
movement  (score,  page  8).2  In  the  second  move- 
ment, entitled  "A  Ball,"  it  is  represented  in  waltz- 
time,  yet  without  losing  its  stateliness  (score,  page 


1  Liszt,  in  his  pianoforte  arrangement  of  the  "Symphonii 
tastique,"  has  changed  the  programme,  stating  that  the  first  n 
ments  represent  actual  events,  and  only  the  last  two  are  dreams.     I 
do  not  think  this  alteration  a  good  one,  as  it  unnecessarily  dii 
the  work    into  two  parts.      The  keen  appreciator  of    this  piece  will 
explain  the  character  of  the  last  two  movements  as  tin-  climacti 
velopment  of  the  underlying  mood  of  the  entire  composition,  rather 
than  something  new  brought  in  from  outside. 

2  These  references  are  to  the  score  as  published  by  Breitkopf  and 
Härtel,  Leipzig. 

[58] 


Berlioz 

38).     Adapted  to  the  character  of  the  " Scene  in 
the  Country,"  it  is  changed  into  a  pastoral  melodv 
given  out   by  the  wood  wind-instruments   (score, 
Page  57)-     In  the  fourth  movement  it  appears  only 
as  a  fleeting  thought  to  the  man  as  he  is  led  to  the 
scaffold    (score,    page    84),    and    finally,   in    the 
Witches'  Sabbath,"  it  becomes  a  distorted  and 
grotesque    dance-time.       The    beloved    one    has 
turned  into  a  she-devil,  who  joins  in  the  spectral 
uproar  of  witches  and  other  mystic  beings  (score 
pages  91  and  92).      Berlioz  did  not,  as  some  crit- 
ics will  always  claim,  build  this  symphony  upon 
one  theme  from  lack  of  musical  invention,  but  the 
different  forms  of  this  theme  are  woven  into  all 
the  movements  which  otherwise  are  quite  inde- 
pendent. 

The  changing  and  transforming  of  a  theme  is 
nothing  new.     We  know  that   the  old   masters 
above  all  Beethoven  and  Schubert,  created  many 
of  their  works  in   the  form  of  variations.     We 
know  also  that,  in  our  day,  Brahms  attained  a 
great  perfection  in  the  mastery  of  this  form.     But 
the  variation  of  a  theme  arising  from  a  perceptible 
reason  —  I  might  say  the  dramatic-psychological 
variation  —  was  first  used  by  Berlioz  in  this  sym- 
phony, and  is  absolutely  his  own  creation.     It  is 
the  same  kind  of  variation  which  Liszt  expands 
and  perfects  in  his  symphonic  poems,  and  which 
Wagner  at  last  uses  as  an  intense  means  of  ex- 
pression in  his  dramas.    These  Wagnerian  themes 
varied  psychologically  in  the  service  of  the  drama' 
have   received   the   name   of   " leading   motives" 
(Leitmotiven). 

[59] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

This  is  the  place  to  say  that  the-  name  is  just  as 
unsuitable  and  out  of  taste  as  are  most  of  the 
names  of  the  so-called  leading  motives  themselves. 
A  motive  that  should  guide  us,  as  it  were,  through 
musical  labyrinths  (as  such,  Wagner's  scores  were 
at  first  considered),  and  which  is  to  keep  us  from 
losing  the  thread  should  indeed,  never  change, 
but  always  be  clearly  recognizable  to  us.  But 
Wagner's  themes  change  continually,  and  enter 
into  the  most  varied  relations  with  each  other, 
just  as  the  emotions  of  tue  will  do  within  our  own 
mental  life.  In  their  Protean  nature  they  would 
be  but  little  adapted  to  serve  a-  guides  for  the 
ignorant  through  dark  pathway-.  But  by  their 
variations  and  by  their  combinations,  which  are 
only  possible  in  polyphonic  music,  they  become 
the  true  images  of  the  dramatis  persons,  and  it 
is  through  this  kind  of  thematic  work  that  \\ 
ner's  drama  obtains  its  impressive  force  and  clear- 
ness. The  "leading  motives,'1  with  their  strange 
names  and  their  consequent  guide  books  (leit- 
faden),  have  brought  about  more  confusion  than 
instruction  concerning  Wagner's  art.  We  often 
find  people  who  think  they  have  studied  Wagner's 
work  sufficiently  when  they  have  discovered  the 
largest  possible  number  of  leading  motives.  They 
take  the  same  delight  in  his  dramas  that  children 
do  in  trying  to  find  the  hidden  face  in  a  puzzle 
picture.  Others  think  all  that  is  needed  to  com 
prehend  a  musical  composition  is  to  learn  by  heart 
the  themes  enumerated  in  the  guide  books.  They 
spend  their  time  in  useless  memory-work,  and  gain 
no  deeper  insight  into  the  music.     Nevertheless, 

M 


Berlioz 

these  guide-books  may  have  furnished  the  means 
of  study  for  intelligent  readers  who  know  how  to 
go  farther.  Nowadays,  however,  this  leading-mo- 
tive system  is  applied  to  all  kinds  of  music,  even 
to  classic  symphonies,  and  the  latest  productions  of 
this  kind  are  the  "programme-books,"  which  are 
distributed  in  some  cities  at  every  orchestral  con- 
cert. The  intellectual  harm  they  do  the  listener 
is  even  greater  than  the  material  gain  they  bring 
to  the  publisher.  Nothing  could  be  said  against 
those  written  by  a  musician  and  containing  music 
examples,  particularly  in  case  of  a  new  work,  pro- 
vided we  could  induce  the  public  to  read  them 
before  the  performance.  At  home  there  is  hardly 
an  opportunity.  The  time  before  the  beginning 
of  the  concert  and  the  pauses  are  filled,  as  a  rule, 
with  conversation.  Therefore  the  reading  begins 
after  the  performance  of  the  music  has  already 
commenced.  Observe  now  a  group  of  listeners 
supplied  with  programme-books.  For  economy's 
sake,  naturally  two  or  three  always  look  over  the 
same  book.  Is  it  not  ludicrous  to  see  how  the 
heads  come  together  and  how  the  fingers  point  to 
the  music  example  printed  in  the  book  when  that 
particular  passage  is  being  played!  Immediately 
afterwards  the  continuation  of  the  text  is  read,  as 
quickly  as  possible,  so  that  the  entry  of  the  next 
music  example  may  not  be  missed.  What  value 
can  there  be  in  such  distracted  listening  and  in- 
sufficient reading  ?  ' '  The  programme-books  make 
it  so  easy,"  is  the  reply.  This  "making  it  easy" 
will  eventually  bring  it  about  that  the  conductor 
will  need  only  to  "bring  out"  as  pointedly  as  pos- 

[61] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

sible  the  passages  quoted  in  the  programme-books 
in  order  to  be  sure  of  being  praised  for  "clean 

in  elaborating  the  performance  of  the  orchestra:" 
and  the  listener  will  need  only  know  these  | 
in  order  to  be  able  to  talk  about  and  criticise  the 
work,  to  have  always  a  quotation  from  it  on  hand, 
and  in  fact  to  assume  the  character  of  a  connoisseur. 
Moreover,  to  spare  expense  the  programme  l*»<>ks 
are  gotten  up  hurriedly  and  superficially,  so  that 
they  are  of  no  use  either  to  dilettantes  or  musicians. 
I  lose  no  opportunity  to  point  out  the  harm  that 
the  reading  of  these  analyses  does,  and  to  urge 
such  as  believe  that  they  cannot  dispense  with 
these  programme-books,  to  read  them  at  home  in 
connection  with  the  study  of  a  good  pianoforte 
score,  but  not  in  the  concert  during  the  music. 

There  is  still  another  bad  habit  resulting  from 
the  "leading  motives,"  namely,  reminiscence  hunt- 
ing, which  has  become  in  our  day-  >o  ostenta- 
tiously obtrusive.  Now  that  it  is  the  (  ustom,  since 
programme  and  guide-books  are  so  prevalent,  not 
to  look  at  a  piece  as  a  whole,  but  only  in  fragments, 
few  listeners  endeavor,  in  hearing  of  a  new  work, 
to  gain  an  impression  of  the  entire  piece  and  then 
turn  to  the  details,  which  can  only  be  intelligible 
in  their  relation  to  the  whole.  The  themes 
"leading  motives,"  from  which  the  piece  is  said  to 
be  built,  are  first  sought  out;  then  when  these  are 
found,  or  after  they  have  been  neatly  extra 
by  some  guide-book  (like  eyes  from  the  head  of  a 
carp),  they  are  compared  with  themes  already 
known, — that  is,  with  those  printed  as  examples 
in  other  programme-books, — first  of  all  with  those 

[<■] 


Berlioz 

of  Wagner,  because  he  is  nearest  us  in  point  of 
time,  and  is  the  most  powerful  figure  of  the  re- 
cent past ;  and  the  younger  composers  must,  there- 
fore,   become  his  disciples   before  they  dare   be 
followers  of  other  masters.     Woe  to  them  if  there 
occurs  some  slight  similarity  of  notes,  say  C,  G, 
for  instance,  in  some  phrase  where  there  is  also  a 
C,  G,  in  a  Wagner  theme!     Woe  if  an  upward 
chromatic   progression   can   be  discovered*!     The 
new  theme  is  then  immediately  from  Tristan  and 
Isolde's  " longing  love  motive?'    two  consecutive 
lourths  become  at  once  Beckmesser's  "thrilling 
thrashing  motive,"  and  a  dotted  rhythm  in  6-8  time 
is  Alberich's  " furious  forging  motive;"  finally,  the 
whole  work  is  "woven  from  sacred  Wagner."     It 
is  astonishing  with  what  speed  a  new  work  can  be 
disposed  of  in  this  way  before  one  has  had  any 
opportunity  to   become   acquainted   with   it.     If 
nothing  or  little  could  be  found  in  Wagner's  works 
to  render  the  victim  suspected,  then  a  search  is 
made  among  the  compositions  of  the  little  father- 
in-law  (Schwieger-väterchen)  Liszt,  or  of  Berlioz  or 
of  older  masters,  —  yes,  even  among  those  of  Mey- 
erbeer, or  in  operettas  or  street  ditties.    It  would 
be  a  fine  task  for  some  experienced  musician  to 
gather  together  and  criticise  all  the  nonsense  which 
has  been  found  in  these  "researches."  x  »  The  rem- 

u-1uS°meJngfni.OUS  person'  for  instance,  claims  that  the  theme  to 
which,  in  the  closing  scene  of  "Götterdämmerung,"  Brünnhilde  sines 
aken°f  S'     £**  ™^  Bru*  auch,  wie  sie  entbrennt,»  has  beS 

There  ?fm;he  ™lgar-; ?Uty>   "DU  hast  >'a  die  schönsten  Augen» 
There  is,  indeed,  a  similarity  of  notes,  but  how  long  the  ear  of  the 

oIoPoPfyti1SC7erer  mUSi  h£VC  be£n!     °n  the  °ther  ha"d,  a  short  trem- 
olo of  the  strings  on  A   E,  or  D,  A,  has  sufficed  to  connect  Brahms' 
TraglC  Overture»  with  Beethoven's  "Ninth  Symphony.» 

6< 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

iniscencc  hunters  forget,  in  their  half  childish, 
half  malicious  joy  at  having  found  some  such  sim- 
ilarity of  notes,  to  examine  the  character  of  the 
theme  itself,  the  position  it  occupies,  the  manner 
of  its  elaboration;  finally  the  aspect,  the  quality, 
the  physiognomy  of  the  entire  work.  They  hear 
with  their  eves  and  not  with  their  ears.  They 
also  forget  that  the  same  sequence  of  tones  is  not 
a  reminiscence;  they  forget  that  many  items  must 
enter  in,  such  as  time,  kind  of  tones,  expression, 
arrangement  of  the  whole,  and  forget,  alxwe  all, 
the  recognizable  and  similar  inner  cause  that  calls 
for  just  this  and  no  other  sequence  of  tones,  and 
proves  tlie  composer's  capability  for  finding  the 
right  expression,  and  the  necessity  for  holding  to 
it.1  Moreover,  the}-  forget  on  the  other  hand,  that 
the  whole  mood  of  a  given  passage  may  recall  an- 
other without  there  being  discernible  the  slightest 
similarity  in  the  succession  of  notes.  These  mood 
reminiscences  are  noticeably  overlooked,  and  yet 
they  are  the  only  ones  worthy  of  consideration, 
because  they  go  much  farther  towards  proving  a 
composer's  want  of  originality  than  do  these  acci- 
dental note  similarities.  Similarities  appear  every- 
where and  quite  frequently  in  the  ma.-terpicces 
from  Bach  to  Wagner;  they  have  never  before 
had  any  influence  in  estimating  a  work,  and  un- 
til to-day  it  never  occurred  to  any  one  t<>  want  to 
use  them  thus. 


1  Incidentally  let  it  Ik-  said  that  one  finds  with  especial  pice  rem- 
iniscences whenever  one  is  determined  to  find  them,  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  silent  concerning  the  obvious  harmonies  which  one 
prefers  not  to  hear. 

["4] 


Berlioz 

Who  would  have  dreamed,  for  instance,  in  Bee- 
thoven's day,  of  pointing  out  his  "Eroica  Sym- 
phony" as  not  original  because  in  the  first  theme 
the  notes  are  similar  to  those  in  the  beginning  of 
Mozart's  "Bastien  und  Bastienne"?  The  entire 
work  was  misunderstood;  critics  complained  of 
lack  of  form,  of  an  inflated  style  for  dazzling 
effects,  etc.  But  Beethoven  would  have  had  to 
have  lived  in  our  day  to  have  been  called  a  plagi- 
arist because  of  the  similarity  above  mentioned. 
Now  for  the  first  time,  in  these  days  of  "lead- 
ing motives"  and  "programme-books',"  is  a  slight 
similarity  of  sounds  sufficient  to  condemn  an  en- 
tire work  as  plagiaristic  and  to  give  a  bad  start  to 
the  journalistic  slaughtering  which  in  consequence 
of  its  widespread  distribution  takes  the  place,  es- 
pecially in  large  cities,  of  intelligent  and  consci- 
entious criticism.  If  a  composition  bears  the 
characteristics  of  its  author,  and  is  perfect  as  a 
whole  and  as  to  its  separate  parts,  then  it  is  of  no 
consequence  if  there  are  also  some  accidental 
notes  similar  to  places  in  some  other  composers' 
works.  I  state  this  as  clearly  and  decidedly  as 
possible,  —  on  the  one  hand,  for  the  protection  of 
such  composers  as  may  be  in  danger  of  losing 
confidence  in  their  own  gifts  on  account  of  the 
judgment  passed  upon  them  by  the  reminiscence 
hunters,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  as  a  warning  to 
those  who,  from  fear  of  this  judgment,  nervously 
and  violently  avoid  every  innocent  similarity  of 
sound,  and  thus  give  their  work  the  stamp  of 
forced  originality,  which  is  the  very  worst  thing 
they  can  do.     For  the  result  of  this  is  stilted,  far- 

[65] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

fetched,  and  distorted  conglomerations  of  sound, 
with  their  superficial  profoundness  and  superfine 
banalities,  which  we  meet  to-day  in  the  song  as  well 
as  in  the  symphony  and  opera,  and  which  expect 
to  attain  success  if  only  they  are  cleverly  and  art- 
fully done.  Hence  the  morbid  and  nervous  music- 
Lovers  of  our  time  who  need  the  strongest  stimu- 
lants to  awaken  them  for  a  few  moments  from 
their  dreamy  languor,  and  who  close  their  glassy 
-  immediately  afterward-  in  slothful  slumber. 
Indeed,  I  believe  I  am  quite  right  when  I  point 
out  this  fear  of  not  being  thought  original  as  the 
evil  spirit  which  robs  many  of  our  young  com- 
posers of  their  sense  and  feeling  of  what  is  healthy, 
Strong,  and  true.  Therefore  [  do  not  in  the  least 
fear  the  reproach  of  encouraging  plagiarism  when 
I  freely  and  openly  exclaim.  "Rather  an  honest 
reminiscence  than  contrariety  to  nature!"  How- 
ever, it  is  a  comforting  thought  that  this  remi- 
niscence-hunting is  only  a  fashionable  ailment, 
which  will  vanish  with  time,  although  in  the  mean- 
while it  attacks  many  a  wise  head  and  although 
many  a  creative  artist  of  the  present  day  may  die 
of  this  disease,  for  not  every  one  has  the  strength 
to  resist  its  doubtless  unpleasant  effects:  not.every 
one  has  the  presence  of  mind  to  offer  his  brow 
courageously  to  this  demon.  "  Fear  of  lack  of  origi- 
nality;" not  everyone  has  the  sound  self-confi- 
dence to  meet  this  foolish  degeneration  of  sound 
judgment  with  at  least  a  shrug  of  the  shoulder. 
if  it  does  not  seem  necessary  to  him  to  pause  and 
say  a  few  strong  words  on  the  subject. 

But  to  return  to  our  theme.     The  prize  for  be- 
[66] 


Berlioz 

ing  the  real  discoverer  of  these  dramatic-psycho- 
logical variations  that  have  had  a  magnificent  pos- 
itive effect,  but,  as  we  have  seen,  also  some  nega- 
tive ones,  ^belongs  without  question,  to  Hector 
Berlioz.  Thus  he  can  in  all  justification  be  called 
the  predecessor  of  Wagner. 

Besides  his  pioneer  wTork,  the  "Symphonie  Fan- 
tastique,"  Berlioz  wrote  another  symphony,  in 
four  movements,  entitled  " Harold  in  Italy."  This 
symphony  hardly  attains  the  level  of  his  first  one. 
Of  his  other  works,  apart  from  his  important 
overtures,  "Le  Corsaire,"  "King  Lear,"  "Benve- 
nuto  Cellini,"  and  "Carnaval  Romain,"  we  have 
still  to  consider  the  dramatic  symphony,  "Romeo 
and  Juliet,"  and  the  legend,  "La  Damnation  de 
Faust,"  which  almost  belongs  to  the  domain  of 
opera.  In  both  these  works  Berlioz  shows  him- 
self as  the  ingenious  musician  rather  than  the  artist. 
Apparently  his  inner  being  drew  him  towards  the 
opera,  but  the  bold  symphony  writer  and  master 
of  orchestration  was  not  capable  of  making  that 
great  stride,  which  was  reserved  for  Richard  Wag- 
ner, —  namely,  to  let  the  music  of  his  drama  grow 
out  of  the  spirit  of  the  text  without  troubling  him- 
self about  the  opera  form.  Berlioz  selected,  and 
composed  for  himself,  opera  texts  according  to  the 
old  models,  and  then  adorned  them  with  charm- 
ing and  spirited  pieces  of  music,  which  are  among 
the  very  best  operatic  music  that  we  possess,  after 
the  classical  masterpieces.  He  also  took  hold  of 
great  existing  operas,  such  as  Shakespeare's  "Ro- 
meo and  Juliet,"  and  Goethe's  "Faust,"  and  ar- 
ranged them  so  as  to  serve  his  own  purpose.     This 

[67] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

purpose  was  to  open  up  new  ways  of  expression  for 
his  energetic  musical  soul,  to  create  music  and 
more  music,  the  most  beautiful,  most  ingenious 
music  of  which  he  was  capable.  He  did  not  con- 
sider whether  the  form  he  chose  was  artistically 
justified.  Asa  matter  of  fact,  I  cannot  justify  it 
from  a  purely  aesthetic  standpoint  any  more  than 
I  can  Schumann's  "Paradise  und  Peri."  It  is 
but  a  style-less  mixture  of  different  forms;  not 
quite  oratorio,  not  quite  opera,  not  quite  sym- 
phony—  fragments  of  ail  three,  and  nothing  per- 
fect. In  "Romeo  and  Juliet"  a  fugatO  pictures 
the  strife  between  the  two  hostile  houses,  a  long 
recitative  for  the  orchestra,  the  meeting,  interfer- 
ence and  threats  of  the  prince.  Little  choruses 
and  solos  tell  of  tin-  unhappy  lot  of  the  lovers,  of 
the  power  of  love,  of  Queen  Main  great  orches- 
tral pieces  depict  the  hall  at  Capulet's  house,  the 
love  scene,  and  again  Queen  Mab.  Thus  this 
little  episode,  so  unimportant  in  the  drama,  is 
brought  in  twice,  while  the  tragic  conflict,  on  tin- 
contrary,  is  entirely  omitted.  A  chorus  piece  il 
lustrates  the  lament  of  the  women  over  Juliet's 
supposed  death;  an  orchestral  piece,  without  a 
vocal  part,  paints  the  awakening  and  tragic  end 
of  the  lovers;  finally,  a  thoroughly  operatic  finale 
describes  the  gathering  of  the  crowd.  Father  Law- 
rence's sermon,  and  the  reconciliation  of  the  rival 
houses.  Berlioz  chooses  the  situations,  which 
seem  to  him  best  suited  for  musical  composition, 
without  any  regard  for  the  organic  connection  of 
the  whole.  In  "La  Damnation  de  Faust,"  he  lays 
the  opening  scene  in  Hungary.     Why?     During 

[68]' 


Berlioz 

a  trip  through  Austria  he  had  heard  the  "Rakoczi 
March;"  he  had  scored  it  brilliantly,  and  was 
looking  for  an  opportunity  to  utilize  it  in  a  larger 
work.  This  opportunity  he  found,  curiously 
enough,  in  "Faust,"  and,  in  order  to  find  some 
justification  for  the  "  March,"  changed  the  scene  to 
Hungary.  He  confesses  this  very  willingly  in  the 
preface  to  his  work.  In  order  to  be  able  to  com- 
pose a  "ride  to  hell,"  a  real  "Pandemonium,"  he 
had  Faust  perish  in  that  place,  quite  at  variance 
with  Goethe's  drama,  to  which  he  otherwise,  for 
the  most  part,  adheres,  and  in  which  Faust  is 
saved.  But  this  "ride  to  hell"  is  such  an  ingen- 
ious piece  of  music  that  we  can  scarcely  regret  the 
violence  Berlioz  has  done  to  Goethe's  poem.  The 
excrescence  —  if  I  may  so  call  it —  in  "Romeo 
and  Juliet,"  the  episode  of  Queen  Mab,  has  given 
us  a  wonderfully  fantastic  orchestral  scherzo,  ab- 
solutely unique  of  its  kind.  In  both  these  works, 
the  other  symphonic  pieces,  with  the  exception  of 
one  about  which  I  will  speak  later  on,  are  also 
marvels  of  ingenious  and  remarkable  music.  I 
may  mention  the  feast  at  Capulet's  house,  the 
magnificent  and  passionate  love  scene,  and  the 
dance  of  the  will-o'-the-wisps  and  of  sylphs  in  "La 
Damnation  de  Faust."  On  the  whole,  I  consider 
this  work,  apart  from  the  "  Symphonie  Fantas- 
tique,"  as  his  most  significant  creation.  The 
dramatic-psychological  variation  of  a  theme  is 
used  in  none  of  his  other  works,  not  even  in  the 
"Harold"  symphony,  with  such  a  brilliant  effect 
as  in  this  symphony.  Berlioz  had  a  great  idea, 
but  he  himself  did  not  bring  it  to  its  greatest 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 
perfection.     That  was  left  for  his  successors  to 

His  collected  works,  even  if  the  last-mentioned 
ones  seem  lacking  in  perfectioD  of  style,  haw 
erted  a  weighty  influence  upon  musical  art.  He 
stands  as  the  real  originator  and  founder  of  the 
modern  school,  which  is  the  leading  one  to-day, 
and  whose  advocat«  often  with  im- 

petuous haste,  to  attain  new  aims  and  the  highest 
possible  success.     Berlioz  will  always  represent  a 
milestone  in  the  development  of  music,  however 
that  school  may  grow.     He  did  not  approach,  by 
any  means,  that  ethical  depth,  that  ideal  perl 
tion  and  purity,  which  surround  Beethoven's  name 
with  Mich  unspeakable  glory;    but  no  composer 
since  Beethoven       except  Wagner      has  enriched 
music  with    so  many  new  means  of    expression; 
has   pointed    to  so  many  new  paths,  as   did  this 
great  Frenchman  whose  sheer  inexhaustible  fan- 
tasy only  appears  the  more  powerful  and  rich  the 
more  we  try.  through  loving  study,  to  appre 
his  compositions. 

Berlioz,  like  Schumann,  opposed  Wagner.  In 
both  cases  we  see  the  aversion  of  one  great  man  to 
recognize  a  greater  one,  by  no  means  a  ran-  oo  ur- 
rence,  but  which  causes  us  to  remember  that 
beneath  highly  talented  natures  lie  human  weak- 
ness and  error;  and  the  sting  at  the  sight  of  for- 
eign superiority  torments  also  enlightened  minds. 
If  any  artist  be  troubled  by  such  feelings,  let  him 
lenk  to  one  sublime  example,  to  a  man  towering 
high  above  all  other  modern  composers  in  this 
spect,  —  to  the  venerable  figure  of  Fran     I 

[7°]  /    ' 


Liszt 

How  this  man,  who  was  himself  so  great,  was  al- 
ways advancing  other  artists  of  a  kindred  nature, 
and  trying  to  spread  abroad  the  fame  of  their 
works;  how  he  took  young  genius  and  talent  by 
the  hand,  supporting  them  with  word  and  deed, 
and  always  without  the  smallest  advantage  to 
himself;  how  often  he  absolutely  neglected  his 
own  creations  for  the  sake  of  others,  —  all  this  is 
a  matter  of  history.  And  I  believe  no  one,  even 
those  who  take  exception  to  his  compositions,  will 
wish  to  rob  him  of  the  shining  crown  which  un- 
selfishness and  noblest  love  have  placed,  for  all 
times,  upon  his  head.  As  a  man,  Liszt  was  the 
king  of  artists. 

As  a  composer,  he  surpasses  Berlioz,  because  in 
the  latter's  symphonic  work,  in  spite  of  all  the 
free  fancy,  the  outline  of  the  old  form  is  almost 
always  visible,  fettering  his  music;  while  Liszt 
wanders  away  from  this  form,  and  thus  often 
gives  his  work  the  character  of  improvisation. 
He  starts  directly  from  the  poetical  subject,  from 
the  programme,  and  takes  it  alone  as  a  guide. 
Sometimes  he  goes  so  far  as  to  express  certain 
events,  or  conditions  of  mind,  in  musical  phrases, 
and  places  them  side  by  side  as  the  programme 
prescribes.  It  is  true  that  Berlioz  was  his  prede- 
<>r  in  this.  I  refer  to  the  next  to  the  last 
orchestral  piece  in  "  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  en- 
titled "Romeo  at  the  Tomb  of  the  Capulets  ; 
Invocation,  Awakening  of  Juliet ;  Frenzy  of  joy 
and  the  first  effects  of  the  poison  ;  Anguish 
of  death  and  parting  of  the  lovers."  Berlioz 
sought  here  to  picture  the  details  of  the  dramatic 

V  '  [7i] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

action  by  fragments  of  melody,   by  accents,  by 
combinations    of    chords    and    expressive    figura- 
tions, and  all  with  such  clearness  that  one  is  able 
to  follow  the  scene  almost  bar  by  bar.     But  this 
piece  is  generally  omitted  at  concerts  because  the 
impression  it  makes,  even  with  the  most   perfect 
rendering,  is  absolutely  confusing,  sometimes  even 
—  my   veneration    for     Berlioz   dor-   not     prevent 
my    saying    this  —  downright    ludicrous.      The 
cause  lies  here,  that  a  task  is  allotted  music  which 
it  cannot  perform.     Were  we  not  given  through 
the  title  an  indication  of  the  subject  of  the  drama, 
we  certainly  would  not  know  what  we  were  listen- 
ing to.    We  would  receive  the  impression  only  of 
a  senseless  confusion  of  sounds.     But  the  feeling 
of  senselessness  is  not  removed,  even  when  we  do 
know  from   the  title  what  images  we  are  to  1 
in  mind;  indeed,  we  are  astonished  to  notice  how 
clear  and  distinct  the  bare  words  of  the  title  are, 
compared  with  the  music,  which  at  other  times  is 
able  to  impress  us  much  more  powerfully  than 
even   an    excellent    word-poem.      We    experience 
similar  feelings  also  in  listening  to  the  orchestral 
recitative  at  the  beginning  of  "Romeo  and  Juliet." 
which  is  said  to  represent  the  arrival  and  inter- 
ference of  the  prince.     Only  the  tormenting  im- 
pression in  this  case  is  soon  over. 

Here  we  have  reached  the  point  where  the  true 
mission  of  music  is  revealed  in  all  its  splendor." 
Here  we  see  that  it  is  an  art  which  can  never  con- 
vey conceptions  to  us  because  it  shows  us  the 
deepest  reality  of  the  world  in  the  most  subtle 
pictures,  and  for  this  reason  stands  high  above  the 


Liszt 


other  arts.  Here  we  see  that  it  is  robbed  of  its 
majesty  if  the  artist  seeks  to  convey  concepts  by 
it  as  language  does;  that  it  is  debased  and  shorn 
of  the  subtle  peculiarities  of  its  being  if  he  at- 
tempts to  bind  it  bar  by  bar,  or  episode  by  epi- 
sode, to  a  programme.  Music  can  interpret  moods, 
it  can  represent  a  mental  state  that  some  event 
has  caused  in  us,  but  it  cannot  picture  the  event 
itself.1  That  is  the  task  for  poetry,  and,  in  an- 
other sense,  for  painting  or  sculpture.  If  this 
task  is  attempted  with  music,  the  effect  is  some- 
thing the  same  as  when  one  tries  to  speak  a  for- 
eign language  but  little  known  to  him.  The 
result  is  not  only  incomprehensible,  but  also  ridic- 
ulous. In  such  cases  music  has  entered  into  the 
above-mentioned  false  relation  to  the  programme, 
and  then  it  ceases  to  be  music.  He,  who  can  do 
nofhing  more,  can  in  listening  form  in  his  imagi- 
nation an  idea  of  the  piece  of  music;  it  will  not 
materially  injure  his  receptive  ability,  for  a  good 
piece  of  music  stands  on  a  much  firmer,  much 
deeper  foundation  than  the  presentation  of  this  or 
that  event,  and  speaks  to  us  with  much  more 
power  than  anything  else.  It  tells  us  of  things 
from  the  deepest  depth,  of  which  that  idea  is  only 
a  copy,  only  an  apparition;  it  unveils  for  us  its 
secrets  and  makes  them  transparent  —  therein  is 
the  great  importance  of  music  in  the  drama. 
But  the  reverse,  to  take  as  a  subject  an  event,  be 


1  I  refer  here  to  the  beautiful  explanation  of  the  nature  of  music 
found  in  both  volumes  of  Schopenhauer's  "Die  Welt  als  Wille  und 
Vorstellung."  Musicians  will  not  agree  with  certain  details.  But 
taken  as  a  whole,  the  conception  will  never  lose  its  significance  for  me. 

[73] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

it  physical  or  mental,  of  dramatic  or  philosophical 
content,  and  to  wish  to  express  it  through  music, 
in  the  exact  order  in  which  it  happened,  —  the 
event,  I  repeat,  and  not,  forsooth,  its  effect  upon 
us,  —  is,  on  the  one  hand,  a  foolish  and  senseless 
undertaking,   because   only   words,  or   in   certain 
exceptional  case-,  a  painted  or  plastic  represen- 
tation, possess  this  ability.     Then  the  artist  makes 
a  mistake  in  the  selection  of  his  medium.    He  low- 
ers a  lofty  and  eternally  noble  art  to  a  service  far 
beneath  it.     Music,  the  language  of  the  spirit  of 
the  universe,  is  used  as  a  means  of  expressing 
often  what  is  ordinary  and  vulgar,  and  —  in  case 
it  is  adopted  extensively  for  work  of  such  style  — 
gives  rise  to  a  perversity  of  possible  musical  feel- 
ing which  hinders  the  appreciation  of  true  mas- 
terpieces.    I  have  too  firm  a  faith  in  the  constantly 
increasing  power  of  music,  to  believe  in  the  last- 
ing success,   especially  in   this  direction,   of   the 
newer    endeavors,  —  hence    my    often    critici-ed 
coolness  towards  a  certain  kind  of  "modernity." 

Although  the  orchestral  piece  out  of  "Romeo 
and  Juliet"  prepares  the  way  for  Liszt's  creations, 
to  a  certain  extent,  still  the  latter  has  given  us 
works  of  incomparably  greater  value  than  this 
piece,  for,  in  many  of  his  compositions,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  finding  an  artistic  form  which  presents 
them  as  finished  creations,  and  these  same  com- 
positions are  not  contrary  to  the  nature  of  music, 
although  each  follows  a  definite  programme.  But 
this  form,  which  Liszt  invented,  is  fitted  exclu- 
sively to  the  poetical  subject  of  each  particular 
work,  and  would  be  quite  senseless  if  used  with 

[74] 


Liszt 

another  programme.  Think,  for  example,  of 
"Mazeppa,"  one  of  Liszt's  most  famous  produc- 
tions. A  wild  movement,  soaring  almost  to  mad- 
ness, pictures  the  death-ride  of  the  hero;  a  short 
andante  his  downfall;  the  following  march,  in- 
troduced by  a  fanfare  of  the  trumpets  and 
increasing  to  highest  triumph,  describes  his  eleva- 
tion and  coronation.  Now  think  of  his  sympho- 
nic poem  "Orpheus,"  the  form  of  which  really 
consists  only  of  a  great  crescendo  followed  by  a 
great  diminuendo.  Orpheus  strikes  the  golden 
strings  of  his  lyre,  and  all  nature  listens  with  de- 
votion to  the  wondrous  sounds.  With  majestic 
strides  the  god  passes  by  us,  charming  the  world 
with  his  personality  and  his  playing.  The  tones 
of  his  lyre  grow  weaker.  Farther  and  farther 
recedes  the  heavenly  figure.  At  last  it  vanishes 
entirely  from  sight.1  The  disposition  of  this  piece 
of  music,  commencing  with  the  softest  pianissimo, 
growing  to  the  most  powerful  volume  of  sound, 
and  then  gradually  dying  away  again,  is  surely 
quite  justified  both  by  itself  and  in  its  connection 
with  the  programme;  but  a  similar  piece  with 
the  title  " Mazeppa"  would  be  quite  impossible. 
Yet  I  feel  certain  that,  were  we  to  hear  "  Mazeppa" 
and  "Orpheus"  without  any  titles,  we  should  rec- 
ognize in  the  former,  a  painfully  stormy  element 
which  breaks  down  and  immediately  afterwards 
rises  again  victoriously,  and  in  the  latter,  a  gentle 
and  majestic  being  who  first  approaches  and  then 


1  The  form  of    the    composition  "Orpheus"  is  not    unlike  the 
overture  to  "Lohengrin." 

[75] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

recedes,  without  needing  necessarily  to  think  of 
either  Mazeppa  or  Orpheus.  (  Kir  fancy  will  be 
powerfully  stimulated  by  the  title,  but  not  uncom- 
fortably fettered.  The  chief  thing  will  always  be 
the  musical  feeling  and  not  the  petty  interpreta- 
tions of  this  or  that  passage,  because,  and  in  fact, 
especially  for  this  reason,  a  positively  musical 
power  dwells  within  these  pieces  which  I  have 
mentioned,  and  because  they  owe  their  origin  to 
musical  feeling  and  Inspiration,  and  not  merely  to 
intellectual  illustrations. 

This  kind  of  programme  music  I  defend  as  en- 
ergetically as  I  condemn  tin-  other,  —namely, 
formless  extemporization  on  supposed  underlying 
subjects.  When  Liszt,  for  instance,  in  his  sym- 
phonic poem,  "Die  Ideale."  endeavors  to  inter- 
pret musically  certain  fragments  of  Schiller's 
poem  in  due  succession,  and  then  tries  to  weld 
these  renderings  together  into  one  movement, — 
when  he  even  goes  so  far  as  to  use  for  headings 
the  different  parts  of  the  poem,  which  he  wishes 
the  listener  to  imagine  during  the  music  (so  that 
only  those  who  are  provided  with  the  score  can 
know  just  what  he  is  to  imagine  at  any  particular 
moment),  —  the  result  is  that  the  music  produces 
only  a  lame  effect,  because  it  cannot  freely  develop 
according  to  its  nature,  but  is  a  priori  bound  to 
the  successive  fragments  of  the  poem,  that  is, 
to  a  series  of  conceptions.  Compare  this  to  the 
overture  of  the  first  version  of  "Fidelio,"  the 
first  "Leonora"  overture  (though  always  falsely 
called  the  second).  Its  musical  value  does  not 
attain  to  the  great  one,  but  it  is  a  true  operatic 


Liszt 

overture  because  certain  important  moments  of 
the  drama  are  represented  in  it,  —  Florestan's  im- 
prisonment, Leonora's  courageous  endeavor  to  re- 
lease her  husband,  her  searching  and  inquiring, 
her  meeting  and  her  fight  with  Pizarro,  her  vic- 
tory, a  short  retrospect  of  the  horrors  overcome, 
with  feelings  of  gratitude  towards  God,  and  finally 
the  exultation  of  the  happily  reunited  pair.     See 
how  well  Beethoven,  with  all  his  dramatic  clear- 
ness, guarded  in  this  piece  the  symphonic  char- 
acter, and  with  what  musical  means  he  knew  how 
to  depict  the  scenes.   I  would  point  out  the  grand 
and  sudden  entrance  of  C-minor  in  the  place  where 
the  usual  repeat  of  the  first  part  in  C-major  is  ex- 
pected;   it  is  intended  to  picture  the  moment  of 
highest  danger,  Leonora's  meeting  with  Pizarro. 
Notice  how  naturally,   and  without  any  violent 
effort,    the   reminiscences   from   the   opera  —  the 
passage  where  Pizarro  falls  back  before  Leonora's 
pistol  —  are  introduced.     I  should  like  to  select 
this  overture  as  a  model  to  demonstrate  just  how 
far  a  certain  programme  is  compatible  with  music 
without   injuring   the   latter   in   its   very   nature. 
Mendelssohn's  "Hebrides"   overture    and    Schu- 
mann's " Manfred"  overture  were  occasioned  by 
poetical  images  and  events.     At  one  time  the  en- 
deavor to  express  such  things  in  music  led  to  a 
coincidence  of  the  new-classical  and  the  modern 
school;    indeed,  composers  did  not  seem  at  first 
aware  that  there  were  two  schools  to  be  repre- 
sented, as  we  may  see  from  Schumann's  relations 
with  Berlioz  and  Liszt.     It  was  only  with  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  totally  abstract  Brahms  and  the  ris- 

[77] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

in<*  of  Wagner,  who  soared  far  above  all  others,  that 
people  began  to  feel  that  there  were  two  schools. 
When  the  consciousness  of  Wagner's  power  dawned 
upon  them,  the  new-classical  school,  feeling  that  its 
last  hours  were  come,  played  the  trump-card  — 
Brahms.  The  "schools"  wire  well  defined  again. 
and  to-day  there  are  so  many  that  every  one  feels 
called  upon  to  work  for  one  or  the  other.  The 
man  who  belongs  to  no  school  naturally  arouses 
suspicion  everywhere  with  his  productions,  and 
can  scarcely  rely  upon  tne  sane  judgment  of  the 
people,  which  in  spite  of  all  misdirection,  finally, 
though  often  at  a  late  day,  finds  out  the  true. 

Here  I  must  warn  against  a  grievous  error 
which  I  believe  I  still  discover  in  many  modern 
compositions;  namely,  the  confusing  of  the  dra- 
matic with  the  symphonic  style.  Referring  once 
more  to  Wagner's  treatise  "On  the  Application  of 
Music  to  the  Drama,"  I  would  add  that  with  a 
few  exceptions  a  characteristic  mark  of  all  sym- 
phonic themes  is  their  breadth  and  their  special 
melodious  character,  while  the  themes  of  a  musi- 
cal drama  are  distinguished  by  their  pregnancy, 
and  thus  often  by  their  significant  brevity.  On 
none  of  Wagner's  themes,  not  even  the  very  sim- 
plest, could  a  symphonic  movement  be  built  up; 
on  the  other  hand,  the  first  theme  of  Beethoven's 
"Eroica,"  for  instance,  consisting  of  twelve  bars 
(not  of  four,  as  many  seem  to  think),  the  melodies 
of  Beethoven's  slower  movements,  indeed,  the 
themes  of  any  true  symphony,  could  not  be  used 
in  opera.  The  dramatist's  inventive  gifts  are  ex- 
cited to  production  by  quite  other  factors  than 

[78] 


Liszt 

are  the  symphony  writer's.     Persons  and  events 
which  are  represented  bodily  on  the  stage  suggest 
to  him  those  pregnant  and  plastic  motives  which 
reveal  the  significance  of  the  events,  often  like 
lightning,  and  which  are  much  more  expressive 
than  words.     But  moods  of  an  inward  and  con- 
templative nature,  the  mental  reaction  after  great 
deeds  or  events,  real  or  fictitious,  which  do  not  re- 
quire realization  by  the  drama,  inspire  the  symphony 
writer   to   create.     His  work  is  like  the  living—- 
out  of  his  very  being  in  music  (ein  Sich-Ausleben 
seines  Wesens  in  Musik);    hence  the  breadth  of 
the   themes   and   the   true   instrumental   melody, 
which  is  rarely  possible  in  the  drama.     If  it  is 
admissible  to  designate  the  orchestral  part  of  the 
musical  drama  as  "symphonic, "  —  that  is,  as  built 
up  in  ingenious  polyphony,  —  then  a  symphony 
may  in  turn  be  called  " dramatic"  if  the  underly- 
ing moods  are  very  passionate  and  variable.     The 
whole  world  is  a  great  drama,  and  music  shows  us 
its  innermost  being.     In  this  sense,  music  itself  is 
"dramatic,"  as  we  can  recognize  to  our  satisfac- 
tion in  our  great  hero  Beethoven,  to  whom  we 
always  turn  when  we  wish  really  to  understand 
what  music  is.     But  the  "symphonic"  quality  of 
a  musical  drama  must  be  taken  in  a  concrete 
sense,  and  the  "dramatic"  nature  of  a  symphony 
movement  in  a  metaphysical  sense;  and  compos- 
ers should  keep  this  difference  constantly  in  mind, 
so  as  to  avoid  the  confusing  of  the  two,  which 
can  have  no   other  effect    than    the    giving   rise 
to  pieces  which  will  look  more  like  fragments  of 
operas  than  symphonies,  or,  on  the  other  hand, 

[79] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

the  airing  of  symphonic  pieces  in  operas  where  they 
do  not  belong.  It  is  well  worth  noticing  that  Wag- 
ner points  to  the  necessity  of  keeping  strictly  to 
the  same  key  unless  there  is  an  imperative  reason 
for  leaving  it.  He  explains  also  that  this  necessity 
applies  in  a  higher  degree  to  the  symphony,  lie- 
cause  daring  modulations,  which  in  the  drama  are 
absolutely  required  by  the  action  would  be  unin- 
telligible in  the  symphony.  There  is  scarcely  an- 
other principle  in  music  which  is  so  sinned  against 
to-day  as  this  one,  which  lay  in  the  natures  of  all 
great  masters,  Wagner  included.  Most  of  Bruck- 
ner's symphonies,  for  instance,  suffer  from  ini 
sant  and  senseless  modulations,  so  that  often  one 
cannot  tell  why  one  is  called  "in  E-flat  major" 
and  another  "in  C-minor,"  since  only  the  final 
bars  of  a  movement  coincide  with  the  key  of  tin- 
beginning,  while  all  the  other  parts  wander,  with- 
out rule,  through  all  the  remaining  keys.  Hut  I 
do  not  think  Wagner  is  right  when  he  reja  ts 
the  varying  of  a  theme  in  the  symphony,  —  the 
psychological-dramatic  variation,  to  use  m\ 
pression,  of  a  theme  in  a  symphony,  as  a  "far- 
fetched effect."  Is  not  the  sudden  entrance  of 
the  minor  key,  to  which  I  referred  in  Beethoven's 
first  "Leonora"  overture,  a  variation  of  this  kind? 
If  in  Liszt's  "Mazeppa"  the  terrible,  increasing 
speed  of  the  death-ride  is  expressed  through  grad- 
ual, rhythmical  —  let  us  say  almost  breathless  — 
shortening  or  condensations  of  the  main  theme, 
from  6-4  time  through  4-4  and  3-4  to  2-4;  if  at 
the  close  of  the  march  this  theme  is  introduced  in 
a  triumphant  manner, — then  these  variations  are 

[so] 


Liszt 

not  the  result  of  far-fetched  effects,  but  of  a  very 
genuine  power  of  expression.  As  in  the  musical 
drama  these  variations  are  determined  by  the  ac- 
tion, in  the  symphony  they  must  submit  them- 
selves to  the  laws  of  symphonic  form,  be  it  the  old 
ones  or  new  ones  which  a  composer,  incited  by 
some  poetical  inspiration,  has  discovered.  Should 
I  be  asked  for  the  rule  of  a  new  form  of  this  kind, 
I  confess  I  should  have  to  reply  in  the  words  of 
Hans  Sachs:  "  First  make  your  rule,  then  follow  it." 
Indeed,  this  following,  this  relentless  and  consistent 
keeping,  of  the  rule  one  has  made,  this  never  devia- 
ting until  all  is  clear,  this  working  with  the  sweat 
of  one's  brow  until  the  gradual  growth  corresponds 
to  one's  inspiration,  without  the  labor  and  sweat 
being  apparent,  —  this  is  what,  in  the  end,  pro- 
duces a  work  of  art.  There  is  no  merit  in  depart- 
ing from  the  old  form  unless  a  definite  object  is 
attained;  it  is  absolutely  senseless  to  designate 
those  keeping  to  the  old  form  as  reactionaries. 
The  "Neo-Germans,"  the  revolutionists,  forget 
that  in  their  zealous  campaign  against  form,  they 
are  just  as  much  Philistines  as  are  the  pseudo- 
classicists  with  their  tirade  against  innovations. 
All  depends  entirely  upon  what  the  work  as  a 
whole  has  to  express,  and  the  form  will  be  merely 
the  adequate  mode  of  expression  for  the  content. 
Of  course  this  applies  only  to  masters,  and  not  to 
every  agreeable  dabbler  who  thinks  he  can  con- 
ceal his  inability  by  a  pathetic  programme  and, 
more  than  this,  make  us  believe  that  it  was  his  in- 
tention that  the  entire  piece  should  hobble  along 
in  a  confused,  mutilated  fashion. 

[8,] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

Other  of  Liszt's  works  suffer  from  the  same 
defect  as  does  the  "Ideale,"  which  also  are  in- 
ferior because  less  significant  in  their  {tower  of 
invention,  as,  for  example,  "Hamlet."  "Prome- 
theus," and  "Heroide  Funebre."  There-  is  a  cer- 
tain extemporaneous  quality,  which  sometimes 
approaches  raggedness,  which  is  peculiar  to  most  of 
Liszt's  works.  I  might  say  that,  just  asm  Brahms 
a  meditative  element  predominates,  so  a  rha; 
die  feature  gains  the  upper  hand  with  Liszt,  and 
becomes  a  disturbing  element  in  his  weaker  works, 
and.  I  am  sorry  to  say.  even  in  the  "Mountain 
Symphony,"  which  is  so  rich  in  beautiful  details. 
Masterpieces  in  which  the  rhapsodic  element  as 
cends  to  its  greatest  and  most  impressive  power 
arc-,  besides  "i  >rpheus"  and  "Mazeppa"  already 
mentioned.  "  Ilungaria,"  "  Festklang«  ."  "  Die  Hun- 
nenschlacht "  (a  fantastic  piece-  of  uncanny  and 
elemental  power),  "Les  Preludes,"  and,  ab 
all,  tlie  two  great  symphonies  on  "Faust"  and 
Dante's  "Divine  Comedy."  The  "Faust  Sym- 
phony" is  not  intended  to  embody  musically 
Goethe's  poem,  but  gives,  as  its  title  promises,  three 
character  sketch es,  -"Faust,"  "Gretchen,"  and 
" Mephistopheli  The  third   movement  shows 

us  with  what  art  and  imagination  Liszt  has  used 
and  developed  the  dramatic-psychological  varia- 
tion of  a  theme  (the  inventor  of  which  I  have- 
already  designated  as  Berlioz).  Mephistopheli 
"the  spirit  who  evermore  denies;"  for  the  princi- 
ple of  his  actions  is,  "for  whatever  has  come  into 
life  deserves  to  be  reduced  to  nought  again." 
Hence  Liszt  could  not  give  him  a  theme  of  his 

[82] 


Liszt 

own,  but  built  up  the  whole  movement  from  cari- 
catures of  previous  themes,  particularly  from  those 
belonging  to  "  Faust."     For  this  reason  ignorant 
critics  have  been  even  more  ready  to  reproach 
Liszt  than  they  did  Berlioz  for  lack  of  invention. 
I  ask,  if  our  great  masters  have  built  up  long  move- 
ments by  manifold  variations  of  themes  of  a  few 
bars,  why  should  not  a  composer  to-day  do  the 
same,  if  a  perceptible  poetical  thought  is  his  guid- 
ing principle  ?     Is  there  no  invention  in  these  char- 
acteristic variations,  and,   forsooth,   invention  of 
the  same  degree  that  the  old  masters  possessed? 
And  just  the  last  movement  of  the  "  Faust  Sym- 
phony" best  reveals  to  us  Liszt's  deep  insight  into 
the  true  nature  of  music.     When  the  infernal, 
diabolical  spirit   has   risen   to   its   most   brilliant 
power,  there  appears,  as  if  soaring  in  bright  clouds, 
the  main  theme  of  the  Gretchen  movement  in 
virgin  beauty.     By  this  motive  the  power  of  the 
demon  is  shattered,  and  it  sinks  back  into  noth- 
ingness.    The  poet  could  let  Gretchen  perish,  and 
even  become  a  transgressor;  the  musician,  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  ideal,  subtle  nature  of  his  art, 
preserved    for   her    the    exalted,    heavenly    form! 
Mighty  trombone  sounds  are  heard  through  the 
discordant   hell-music  as  it  dies  away;    a  male 
chorus  softly  intones  Goethe's  sublime  words  of  the 
" Chorus  Mysticus,"  —  "All  that  is  transitory  is 
only  illusion ;  "  and  in  the  clearly  recognizable  notes 
of  the  Gretchen  theme,  continues  a  tenor  voice, 
"The  Ever-Feminine  draweth  us  on  "  (Das  Ewig- 
Weibliche   zieht   uns  hinan).     One  can   identify 
this  tenor  voice  with  Goethe's  Doctor  Marianus, 

[83] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

and  imagine  Gretchen  transfigured  into  the  Mater 
Gloriosa;  one  might  also  recall  Faust's  words 
when  he  beholds  Gfetchen's  image  in  the  vanish- 
ing clouds:  — 

"Like  a  pure  soul,  still  fairer  grows  the  form, 
Dissolves  not,  but  to  higher  realm.-  of  air  ascends, 

And  hears  with  it  my  nobler  self,  my  heart,  away." 

So  in  great  pieces  of  music  goldeD  threads,  spun 
from  sunshine,  are  woven  lightly  and  airily,  be- 
tween the  music  and  the  inspiring  poetry,  making 
both  more  beautiful,  but  confining  neither. 

Still  more  unified  and  more  powerful  than  the 
"Faust  Symphony,"  is  the  tone  poem  to  Dante's 
"Divine  Comedy."  with  its  vivid  representation  of 
the  torments  of  hell  and  its  "Purgatory,"  '  which 
gradually  rises  into  the  higher  sphere  of  pure 
sentiment.  In  both  these  works  Liszt  has  given 
the  highest  art  of  which  he  was  capable.  They 
can  be  compared  only  with  the  creations  of  the 
great  masters.  They  mark  not  only  the  highest 
point  in  Liszt's  work,  but  also,  with  Berlioz's 
symphonies,  are  the  ripest  fruit  thus  far  of  artistic 
programme  music.  It  is  gratifying  to  know  that 
Berlioz's  and  Liszt's  compositions  are  constantly 
gaining  ground  for  themselves,  and  becoming 
more  generally  appreciated,  in  fact,  are  even 
awakening  enthusiasm,  although  a  large  number  i  >f 
critical  reviews  of  their  works  have  taken  the  oc- 
casion to  grumble  over  them  or  insult  them  with 

1  A.  ting  on  the  wish  of  the  hyper-Catholic  Prim  ess  Wittgenstein, 
Liszt  added  a  second  close,  indicating  the  triumphant  church.  It 
is  very  weak,  and  I  alwavs  recommend  its  omission. 

M 


Liszt 

their  traditional  air  of  superiority.  The  pseudo- 
classicists  break  their  noses,  and  the  ultra-mod- 
erns would  like  to  treat  both  of  these  great  mas- 
ters as  surmounted  obstacles,  as  steps  now  passed 
over,  in  reaching  the  state  of  perfection  where 
the  "new  gods"  now  sit  throned.  Idle  endeavor! 
Time  gives  its  potent  judgment,  without  regard 
to  the  pigmies  which  are  swelling  themselves  up, 
and  strutting  about  in  their  narrow  nothingness; 
and  already  it  is  being  seen  that  Berlioz  and 
Liszt  are,  with  Wagner,  the  great  stars  in  the  new 
musical  epoch,  the  heroes  of  the  last  half  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  just  as  Haydn,  Mozart,  Bee- 
thoven, Weber,  and  Schubert  were  the  heroes  of 
the  first. 

Apart  from  these  two  symphonies,  each  con- 
sisting of  several  movements,  Liszt's  orchestral 
works  have,  as  a  rule,  but  one  movement,  and  are 
entitled  "Symphonic  Poems."  This  name  is  a 
very  happy  one,  and  seems  to  me  to  express  in 
two  words  just  the  law,  perhaps  the  only  law, 
which  a  piece  of  music  must  obey  if  it  is  to  have 
a  right  to  exist.  Let  it  be  a  poem;  that  is,  let  it 
spring  from  some  poetical  source,  from  some  im- 
pulse of  the  spirit  which  the  author  may  convey 
to  the  public  by  title  and  programme,  or  may 
withhold;  but  let  it  also  be  "symphonic,"  which 
is  here,  speaking  in  general  terms,  synonymous 
with  "musical."  Let  it  have  a  definite  form, 
either  one  taken  from  the  old  masters,  or  a  new 
one  developed  from  its  content  and  corresponding 
to  it.  Lack  of  form  in  any  art  is  unpardonable, 
and  in  music  can  never  be  excused  by  a  pro- 

[85] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

gramme,  or  by  what  the  composer  "  imagined." 
Liszt's  symphonic  works  stand  for  a  great  first 
step  along  a  new  path.  Any  writer  who  will  go 
farther  on  this  way  must  take  good  care  not  to 
imitate  Liszt's  weakness,  that  raggedness  of  con- 
ception which  he  often  displays,  but  to  compose 
pieces  which  are  more  than  tone-illustrations  of 
programmes. 

I  trust  that  I  have  made  it  sufficiently  clear 
what  we  owe  the  modern  school  which  has  reached 
its  highest  development  in  Berlioz  and  Liszt,  and 
what  are  the  dangers  that  we  have  inherited  from 
them.  Besides  the  positive  gain,  which  we  enjoy 
in  the  works  of  these  two  masters,  we  have  also 
learned  that  there  are  other  arts  and  forms  of 
composition  besides  those  of  the  sonata,  rondo, 
and  variation  which  seem  so  unavoidable.  It  has 
disclosed  to  the  imagination  a  rich  though  dan- 
gerous field  of  action,  where  precious  fruit  may 
still  be  reaped.  As  it  is  customary  in  every  great 
revolutionary  movement,  that  some  shoot  beyond 
the  mark,  so  must  it  here  also  be  confessed  that 
music,  while  men  were  striving  to  increase  its  power 
of  expression,  at  times  was  lowered  from  its  sacred 
pedestal  to  become  the  slave  of  words  and  con- 
ceptions. The  boundary  line  over  which  music 
cannot  step  without  becoming  unmusical,  is  very 
hard  to  recognize.  We  are  in  need  of  a  larger 
number  of  new  and  significant  works  in  order 
that  it  may  be  more  clearly  drawn.  If  the  younger 
generation  of  our  composers  comes  to  know  that 
music  is  not  a  language  of  conceptions,  if  it  recog- 
nizes the  demand  for  form  in  composition,  and  if 

[86] 


Strauss 

it  learns  strictly  to  separate  the  symphonic  from 
the  dramatic  style,  then  we  need  not  give  up  the 
hope  of  hearing,  in  the  future,  symphonies  about 
which  —  to  use  Wagner's  words  —  something  may 
be  said ;  provided  that  some  one  comes  who  knows 
all  this  without  being  told. 

At  all  events,  the  modern  school  has  been  more 
stimulating  and  fruitful  than  the  new-classical. 
It  has  become  the  yeast  in  the  bread  of  the  Philis- 
tines, and  its  fermentation  is  more  and  more  ap- 
parent in  Germany  and  abroad.  Thus  I  believe 
that  some  remarkable  modern  symphonies,  in  the 
old  form,  and,  therefore,  belonging  to  the  new- 
classical  school,  would  not  have  been  composed 
exactly  as  they  were,  if  Berlioz  and  Liszt  had  not 
lived.  I  refer  among  others  to  the  symphonies  of 
Sinding  and  Borodin,  which  I  have  already  men- 
tioned. In  our  days  we  see  also  desertions  from 
the  old  school  to  the  new.  Dvorak,  no  longer  a 
young  man,  who  can  be  considered  as  a  pupil  of 
Brahms,  and  who  has  attained  great  success 
with  his  symphonies,  has  suddenly  turned  to  pro- 
gramme music,  and  is  composing  symphonic  poems. 
—  Some  years  ago  we  witnessed  a  similar  conver- 
sion in  the  case  of  Richard  Strauss,  who  was  then 
a  very  young  man.  As  a  pupil  of  Hans  von  Bil- 
low, after  Biilow  had  deserted  Wagner,  he  swore 
by  Brahms,  and  wrote  an  excellent  symphony  of 
which  the  model  is  evident.  Later  he  went  over 
to  the  modern  school,  began  a  series  of  symphonic 
poems  by  no  means  finished  yet,  and  now  in  the 
public  opinion  stands  as  the  leader  of  the  most  ex- 
tremely progressive  school.     I  consider  "Tod  und 

[87] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

Verklärung,"  as  one  of  the  most  worthy  of  t: 
symphonic  poems,  more  so  than  "Don  Juan/' 
which  is  perhaps  better  known  and  liked.  The 
former  is  a  piece  of  spent  passion,  powerful  both 
in  invention  and  construction,  and  very  sincere 
and  genuine  in  feeling,  except  the  close,  which 
seems  to  me  more  pompous  than  glorious.  A 
piece  of  equal  value  is  the  scherzo  for  orchestra, 
"Till  Eulenspiegels  lustige  Streiche,"  which  is 
most  brilliant  both  thematically  and  instrument- 
ally,  indeed  truly  witty,  if  1  may  apply  this  word 
to  music.  In  "Also  sprach  Zarathustra,"  Strauss 
falls  into  the  same  error  which  Liszt  made  before 
him  with  the  "Ideale."  Lis  t  intended  t<>  pic- 
ture a  succession  of  moments  during  which  man 
rose  from  his  every  day  life  t<>  a  higher  sphere; 
and  so  in  Strauss">  pi<  ries  of  world  con- 

ceptions passes  before  us,  each  of  which  attempts 
to  solve  the  great  secret  of  life,  represented  by  tin- 
succession  of  notes,  C,  G,  C.  Noneof  them  suc- 
ceeds,  and  at  the  end  the  C,  (i.  (\  stand  there 
as  obstinately  as  in  the  beginning,  and  doubt  — 
the  "father  of  truth."  according  t<>  Nietzsche,  the 
chord  C,  E,  F-sharp,  according  to  Strauss  -may 
go  on  forever  assailing  it.  No  doubt  different 
moods,  such  as  religious  feeling,  passion,  pleasure, 
and  superhuman  dionysiac  serenity  remember 
the  last  movement  in  Beethoven's  A  major  sym- 
phony -may  V-  rendered  musically;  even  grant- 
ing that  a  fugue  may  symbolize  science,  which  is 
barren  in  the  solution  of  the  final  and  highest 
questions  of  life,  yet  by  the  welding  together  of 
such  widely  differentiated  moods  into  one  move- 

[88] 


Strauss 

ment,  which  makes  it  necessary  for  the  listener 
to  hunt  out  bar  by  bar  the  thoughts  —  no  doubt 
ingenious  —  which  guided  the  composer,  the  im- 
pression of  the  music,  in  the  true  sense  of  the 
word,  is  lost.  Aside  from  these  considerations, 
which  even  the  masterly  treatment  of  the  orches- 
tra does  not  dispel  from  my  mind,  the  positive 
power  of  invention  seems  to  me  to  be  less  in  this 
piece  than  in  earlier  works  by  Strauss.  This  is 
due,  I  believe,  to  the  fact  that  from  impulse  to  ex- 
ecution the  path  of  the  composer  in  this  piece 
lay  in  the  domain  of  conceptions;  that  is,  that 
music  is  brought  into  an  uncongenial  sphere 
through  which  it  always  seems  to  be  seeking  the 
right  way  without  ever  being  able  to  find  it,  and 
loses  itself  in  experimentation.  Strauss  seems  to 
be  just  as  far  from  what  I  consider  music  in 
his  newest  worksj  "Don  Quixote"  and  "Ein  Hel- 
denleben," as  in  "Zarathustra."  With  the  old 
masters  we  got  along  without  programmes;  with 
Berlioz  and  Liszt  a  title  was  sufficient.  Strauss 
finds  it  necessary,  even  before  the  appearance  of 
one  of  his  new  works,  to  bring  out  an  exten- 
sive explanation  and  guide,  written  by  another 
hand.  Wliy  is  this  necessary  if  he  really  believes 
that  his  music  has  reached  that  elevation  where 
it  is  in  a  position  to  speak  to  us  as  clearly  as 
words  ?  If  he  had  accomplished  this,  we  would  be 
able  to  hear  wThat  he  wishes  to  say  to  us  without 
elucidation  or  programme.  Then  he  would  have 
reached  his  goal.  Fortunately,  at  the  time  of 
the  first  performance  of  "Eulenspiegel,"  Strauss, 
confident  of  the  musical  character  of  this  piece, 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

tactfully  one  might  say  (when  one  recalls  some 
of  the  Eulenspiegel  anecdotes),  avoided  giving 
the  programme.  In  hearing  this  piece,  even  if  it 
were  performed  without  its  title,  we  would  get  a 
certain  impression  of  being  seized  or  preyed  upon, 
even  if  we  did  not  think  of  Eulenspiegel.  In  his 
later  works  this  is  the  exception.  No  one.  for 
instance,  hearing  the  great  violin  solo  in  "Hel- 
denleben," would  think  of  a  rebellious  woman  who 
was  gradually  won  by  the  love  of  the  hero,  or. 
listening  to  the  adventurous  "wind  kakophonions" 
of  the  second  portion,  would  think  of  "the  hi 
adversary,"  if  he  did  not  know  that  this  was  what 
he  was  to  imagine.  The  fact  that  the  author 
himself  considers  it  necessary  previously  to  in- 
terest the  public  is  evidence  that  the  new  way 
which  he  has  pretended  to  break  through  is  only 
seemingly  passable,  for  those  extensive  elucida- 
tions are  nothing  more  than  an  open  confession 
that,  in  spite  of  the  polyphonic  art  and  our  aston- 
ishment over  the  instrumentation,  these  creations 
are  senseless  without  intellectual  explanation.  <  >n 
the  other  hand,  a  rial  programme  is  not  ] »re- 
sented with  these  pieces,  and  thus  the  public  is  to 
a  certain  extent  brought  by  an  ambiguous  way 
to  their  comprehension,  in  that  it  must  first  be 
instructed,  as  to  what  it  should  think,  and  then 
must  consider  it  all  as  a  direct  language.  The 
character  of  incompleteness  with  which,  on  ac- 
count of  this  proceeding,  these  extravagant  com- 
positions seem  afflicted,  and  which  presents  itself 
in  all  the  more  striking  a  manner  since  their  origi- 
nality  in   regard    to   spirituallv   rich   harmonies, 

M 


Strauss 


but  in  no  wise  in  regard  to  original  melodies  and 
themes,  can  be  exhorted,  prevents  them  from  hav- 
ing anything  to  do  with  works  of  genius.  The 
truly  original  stands  out  free  and  independent, 
and  strides  boldly  through  the  world.  It  needs 
no  preliminary  studies,  and  —  no  crutches. 

Many  aesthetic  questions  have  been  raised  over 
Strauss's  compositions,  among  others,  if  a  flock  of 
sheep  (Don  Quixote)  could  be  represented  in 
music.  In  my  opinion,  in  this  and  similar  cases, 
it  is  a  question  of  how  it  is  done.  A  mere  imita- 
tion of  the  sounds  of  nature,  as  in  Strauss's  piece, 
can  call  up  a  recognition  of  the  story;  as,  for  ex- 
ample, a  picture  of  a  rubbish  heap  painted  in 
masterly,  realistic  style,  shows  the  wonderful 
technique  of  the  painter.  In  both  cases  we  need 
only  the  odors  to  make  the  illusion  complete.  A 
truly  artistic  and  musical  conception  of  a  bleating 
flock  of  sheep  could  be  scarcely  less  faithful  than 
is  Strauss's,  but  it  would  have  to  be  much  more 
full  of  sentiment,  of  humor,  and  music.  May  not 
one  suspect  in  many  places  in  Strauss's  pieces, 
where  he,  apparently  in  accordance  with  the  prin- 
ciple, "Nothing  is  true;  everything  is  permissible," 
heaps  up  the  ugly  on  top  of  the  ugly,  that  the 
composer,  —  so  accustomed  from  youth  up  to 
praise  and  recognition  (for  one  cannot  help 
being  astonished  at  this  man)  that  he  celebrated 
himself  in  his  latest  tone-poem,  "the  hero  strug- 
gling with  his  adversary,"  —  that  this  composer 
now  riding  on  the  high  wave  of  prosperity, 
wished  to  see  how  much  he  could  offer  the  public 
with  serious  mien,   before  the  joke  was  discov- 

[91] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

ered?  In  truth,  did  he  not  try  some  "  Eulenspie- 
gelei" in  his  compositions,  just  as,  for  example, 
Biilow,  according  to  my  conviction,  here  and 
there  attempted  in  directing  concerts  ?  Thus  it  is 
not  the  harmonic  and  instrumental  abnormities 
of  the  first  rank,  but  rather  the  deeper  observa- 
tions, which  I  have  given  above,  that  make  it  im- 
possible for  me  to  agree  with  Strauss  in  his  works 
during  the  last  few  years.  Xor  can  his  brilliant, 
even  phenomenal  success  lead  me  to  agreeing, 
especially  as  the  significance  of  contemporary  suc- 
cess is  but  of  ephemeral  worth  to  him  who  directs 
his  glance  back  away  from  the  figures  of  our  day 
over  the  history  of  hundreds  and  thousands  of 
years. 

Here  I  will  speak  of  a  curious  feeling  which  I 
have  often  experienced,  but  which  I  haw  not 
found  shared  by  others.  If  I  hear  a  piece  that 
reveals  to  me  the  weakness  of  the  modem  school. 
then  there  comes  over  me  after  a  short  time  of 
attentive  listening,  in  spite  of  the  great  external 
difference,  exactly  the  same  sensations  that  a  weak 
work  of  Brahms  awakens  in  me;  the  same  insipid, 
emptv,  and  heavy  feeling  of  torment.  Docs  this 
similarity  of  effect  lie  in  the  fact  that  Brahms's 
music  appears  to  me  as  the  conception  of  music, 
as  opposed  to  its  essence,  while  in  the  programme 
pieces  conceptions  —  as  opposed  to  the  essence 
of  things  —  are  intended  to  be  expressed?  May 
it  be  that  the  erroneous  and  artificial  products  of 
both  schools  are  closely  related  after  all,  as  is 
undoubtedly  the  case  with  their  great  produc- 
tions?    Perhaps,  from  a  very  high  point  of  view, 


Mahler 

there  are  not  really  two  schools,  but  only  one. 
Time  alone  can  tell. 

As  I  spoke  before  of  an  older  and  a  younger 
composer,  I  may  mention  two  other  artists  in  the 
same  purely  external  connection.  Standing  under 
the  direct  influence  of  Liszt,  Friederich  Smetana, 
a  Bohemian,  wrote  a  series  of  six  symphonic 
poems.  He  gave  them  the  collective  title,  "Mein 
Vaterland,"  as  he  had  found  his  poetical  impulse 
in  Bohemian  folk-lore.  I  mention  as  especially 
valuable  "Vltava,"  and  then  "Vysehrad"  and 
"Aus  Böhmens  Hain  und  Flur."  The  first  men- 
tioned is  an  especially  beautiful  example  of  how 
far  a  prescribed  programme  is  compatible  with 
music.  An  interesting  figure  of  our  day,  but  far 
too  little  esteemed  as  a  composer,  is  Gustav  Mahler. 
His  works  are  of  colossal  dimension,  and  require 
an  unusually  large  number  of  executants,  which 
makes  more  difficult  their  performance  and  repu- 
tation. But  if  we  overlook  these  considerations, 
which,  after  all,  are  secondary,  and  turn  to  the 
composer  himself,  we  find  in  him  deep,  strong 
feeling  which  has  its  own  mode  of  expression,  and 
which  says  what  it  has  to  say  quite  unconcerned 
about  the  possibilities  of  performance  and  success. 
Mahler's  most  striking  characteristic  is  the  re- 
markable breadth  of  his  themes,  as  well  as  their 
thoroughly  musical  nature.  In  many  points  he  is 
like  his  teacher,  Bruckner,  only  he  understands 
better  how  to  work  with  his  themes  and  how  to 
construct  his  movements.  There  may  be  bizarre 
passages,  there  may  be  needless  difficulties  in  his 
works;    we  may  notice  a  certain   prolixity,  and, 

[93] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

perhaps,  a  want  of  severe  self-criticism  in  the 
selection  of  his  themes;  but  everything  that 
Mahler  writes  bears  the  stamp  of  a  rich  imagina- 
tion and  of  a  passionate  and  a  vivid,  almost  fanatic 
enthusiasm,  which  always  has  awakened  my  sym- 
pathy. 

I  have  now  spoken  of  the  modern  composers 
also,  chiefly  of  Strauss  and  Mahler,  who,  standing 
still  in  the  middle  of  their  creative  work,  lead  our 
thoughts  on  from  the  present  to  the  future. 
Whether  there  will  come-  an  artist,  who  in  his 
own  way  can  carry  on  further  the  work  of  Berlioz, 
Liszt,  and  Wagner,  and  worthily  bring  to  a  i  loa- 
the ranks  of  our  great  geniuses,  no  one  to-day  can 
tell. 

But  we  need  n<>t  hinder  our  imaginations  from 
picturing  him  as  he  would  appear  in  our  day.  I 
think  of  him  first  as  independent  of  all  parties, 
and  not  meddling  with  them  because  he  is  above 
them.  I  think  of  him.  nut  narrow-mindedly  Ger- 
man nor  yet  cosmopolitan  and  shallow,  but  having 
a  strong,  purely  human  feeling,  because  music  is  a 
universal  art.  I  picture  him  inspired  with  a  glow- 
ing enthusiasm  for  what  the  great  minds  of  all 
times  and  of  all  nations  have  produced,  and  hav- 
ing an  invincible  aversion  to  mediocrity,  with  which 
he  comes  in  contact  only  through  his  own  kindni 
I  think  of  him  as  free  from  envy  because  conscious 
of  and  trusting  in  his  own  worth,  far  above  any 
mean  ways  of  advertising  his  own  works;  pro- 
foundly sincere,  and,  where  needful,  even  indiffer- 
ent—  hence  not  a  gnat  favorite  in  many  places. 
I  imagine  him  not  anxiouslv  avoiding  social  in- 

[94] 


Conclusion 

tercourse,  but  with  a  tendency  towards  seclusion 
—  not  hating  men  in  exaggerated  world-grief,  but 
despising  their  meanness  and  narrow-mindedness, 
and  so  choosing  only  special  persons  for  his  daily 
intercourse.  I  think  of  him  as  not  indifferent  to 
success  or  failure,  but  refusing  to  allow  either  to 
alter  his  course  by  a  hair's  breadth;  very  indif- 
ferent to  so-called  public  opinion,  and  politically 
a  republican  in  Beethoven's  sense.  I  see  him 
wandering,  as  it  were,  in  an  Alpine  region  where 
the  clear  white  mountain-tops  greet  us  kindly,  but 
yet  are  awe-inspiring,  with  his  gaze  constantly 
fixed  on  the  highest  peak,  toward  which  he  is  al- 
ways advancing.  Although  he  feels  himself  akin 
only  to  the  greatest  geniuses,  still  he  knows  he  is 
only  one  link  in  the  chain  and  that  other  great 
men  will  succeed  him.  So  he  belongs,  indeed,  to 
a  school,  but  to  one  which  soars  over  the  heads 
of  humanity  and  vanishes. 

If  we  come  down  to  reality  after  this  flight  of 
our  imagination,  we  recognize  that  we  are  living 
in  an  interregnum,  in  a  period  of  transition. 
Everywhere  we  notice  a  pulsating,  restless  activ- 
ity, an  uncertain  groping  after  dim  objects,  a 
hankering  for  success  and  celebrity  at  all  costs 
and  by  any  means.  "Progress,"  "Neo-German- 
ism,"  ''hitherto  unheard-of  originality,"  "precur- 
sor," "epigone,"  "eclectic,"  "founder  of  a  new 
school,"  "superseded  standpoint," — these  are 
many  of  the  catchwords  which  strike  our  confused 
ear.  Now  we  hear  of  a  new  tone-poem  in  com- 
parison with  which  the  works  of  Wagner,  Liszt,  and 
Berlioz  are  but  the  productions  of  pigmies;  there 

[95] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

the  true  popular  vein  is  said  to  have  been  rediscov- 
ered. As  in  a  Fata  Morgana,  the  new  pass  before 
us,  fade,  and  die  away.  An  almost  frivolous  ad- 
miration of  the  willful,  the  irregular,  the  ugly,  has 
manifested  itself  in  many  places.  Where  for- 
merly every  Philistine  crossed  himself  before  every 
"tritonus,"  and  eagerly  searched  for  every  "in- 
harmonic relation,"  nowadays  they  sanction  every 
harmonic  absurdity,  calling  it  a  •"bold  act,"  if 
only  it  occurs  absolutely  without  reason;  and  he 
who  has  accomplished  the  most  along  that  line  is 
styled  a  "reformer!"  No  doubt  in  the  midst  of 
all  this  confusion,  the  great,  the  truly  new  and 
original,  is  silently  preparing,  but  far  away  from 
the  art  market.  Its  appearance  will  be  a  ques- 
tion of  personality  and  not  of  education.  The 
artist  cannot  live  far  from  the  activity  of  the  world. 
He  must  get  his  ideas,  his  inspirations,  and  the 
plumb-line  for  his  work  from  life.  Will  our  pr 
ent  most  intense,  nervous,  and  strenuous  exist- 
ence let  some  soul  develop  within,  in  the  midst 
of  all  the  press  and  drive,  that  degree  of  intuitive- 
ness  and  poise  from  which  alone  great  work<  of 
art,  stamped  neither  more  nor  le>s  with  the  fad  of 
the  day,  can  come?  Will  without  reaction — ■ 
that  loftiness  without  pathos,  that  charm  without 
coquetry,  that  strength  and  sweetness  of  spirit, 
by  which  our  great  masters  were  character] 
return  to-day  upon  the  basis  of  the  modern  phil- 
osophy of  life?  In  this  age  of  invention  and  me- 
chanics is  an  art  possible  that,  standing  as  far 
above  all  time  as  everything  really  great  does,  is 
still  the  child  of  its  time  ? 

[96] 


Conclusion 

The  answer  to  this  question  must  be  left  to 
the  future. 

Meanwhile  we  may  reach  firm  standing-ground 
in  the  conviction  that  true  progress  will  not  come 
from  the  outward  but  from  the  inner  man.  If 
an  artistic  production  is  the  result  of  speculation 
only,  and  not  of  an  inspiration,  it  may  dazzle  «us, 
but  will  never  truly  interest  or  permanently  fas- 
cinate us.  Those  who  share  with  me  this  con- 
viction will  cry  out  to  the  gifted  and  ambitious 
composers:  Let  your  feelings,  your  thoughts,  your 
ideas,  be  great  and  noble,  as  great  and  noble 
as  those  of  our  great  masters;  then  you  will  pro- 
duce the  right  kinds  of  works,  and  just  as  you 
produce  them,  they  will  be  right.  And  if  you  can- 
not do  this,  then  mount  Pelion  upon  Ossa,  write 
for  a  thousand  trombones  and  for  two  hundred 
thousand  kettledrums;  nothing  will  result  but  a 
bogey.  ■  Brilliant  technicality  is  not  enough.  Nat- 
uralness, straightforward  and  powerful  sincerity, 
—  that  is  what  we  want.  Write  down  without 
fear  what  your  spirit  impels  you  to  write,  and  ex- 
press what  must  be  expressed.  Then  it  will  be  an 
image  of  yourself,  an  expression  of  your  own  na- 
ture. Have,  moreover,  the  courage  to  remain 
what  you  are,  even  if  you  are  misjudged  or  "torn 
to  pieces."  Only  do  not  think  that  a  " Ninth 
Symphony"  or  a  " Nibelungen  tetralogy"  will  re- 
sult from  your  attempts.  The  world  will  be  very 
thankful  to  you  for  an  opera  in  the  style  of  Lort- 
zing,  or  for  a  symphony  such  as  Hermann  Goetz 
has  written,  provided  what  you  have  composed  is 
genuine  and  not  artificial.     Do  not  imagine  that 

[97] 


The  Symphony  since  Beethoven 

every  one  of  you  must  be  ''superhuman"  if  the 
misunderstood  teachings  of  Zarathustra  ring  in 
your  ears  and  set  your  brain  in  feverish  agita- 
tion. To  only  a  few  is  it  permitted  to  wander  on 
the  highest  summits  of  humanity,  and  this  "su- 
perhuman" state  cannot  be  constructed,  learned. 
or 'acquired.  That  endowment  comes  only  as  a 
transcendent  gift  from  the  regions  above.  '*  From 
which?"  you  eagerly  ask.  Well  —  from  that  re- 
gion which  only  he  would  deny  who  has  never 
felt  its  breath  wafted  across  to  him!  —  Be  it  a  little 
song  or  a  greal  symphony  that  you  compose,  it 
will  only  be  a  masterpiece  if  it  deserves  the  same 
motto  that  the  great  Beethoven  wrote  on  the  -tore 
of  his"Missa  Solemnis:" 

"Von  Herzen  —  möge  es  zu  Herzen  gehen." 

I'll  IX     \\  l.I.NOARIM  K. 


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.        fiEC'DUMJfli 

•«  od       :3 

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